So it's over for another year. Everything is almost back to normal.
Did you all have a good time?
I braved some serious black ice and thankfully escaped serious injury to walk to the very beautiful St Bartholomew's Church in Yealmpton for the annual candle-lit Midnight Mass service.
I first went with my Dad several years ago, embarrassing ourselves by clattering into the church at 11:55 to discover the service didn't actually start at midnight, but 11:30pm. The vicar stood a bit too close to a candle arbre and set his robes on fire, but comically didn't notice for several seconds before asking mid-sermon "Can anybody smell burning?" then realising he was on fire. Since then, it's been an unmissable event in my eyes.
This year passed without the need for the emergency services and me, Mr G and my Dad skated home just before 1am to get some much needed shut-eye before the big day.
I was especially excited this year as my little nephew (referred to in an earlier post as "Squiffy") has started to understand what it's all about and I couldn't wait to see his reaction on Christmas Morning, although I was half expecting a tantrum of epic proportions after I took him outside to watch the Rotary Club Santa drive round the block a few days earlier and he kept shouting "I want to go back in the house!", then got rewarded with a Drumstick Lolly for his troubles whilst I got nothing. When I asked him why he was crying he said "Father Christmas makes me sad". Oh dear.
Well, as is tradition at my Mum and Dad's house on Christmas morning, ours has to be the first house in the street with lights on and this year was no exception thanks to my sister, Fiver (25) waking up me, Mr G and her 2 1/2 year old son at 7.15am. 7.16am saw a text from our older sister, Hazel (30), declaring "You'd better not have forgotten about us! We've been up for hours! We're on our way!"
A quick cup of tea whilst me and Mr G packed away our makeshift bedroom in the living room, then everyone was ready to see Squiffy's reaction to the presents.
His Mum brought him down the stairs and his face lit up as he walked into the room and asked sweetly if the presents were all for his cousin, JEdwards (not his real name, sadly).
I then spent the rest of the day helping my mother cook a delicious roast, stuffing my face full of food, drinking severely brandy-laced Buck's Fizz, snoozing in my Slanket (more to follow), playing the drums very badly on Mr G's new Beatles Rock Band game, and eating imaginary sausages and chips cooked for me by Squiffy in his new kitchen.
Sadly, and in spite of my prolific background in the tap-dancing industry, I was what can only be described as SHAMBOLIC on the drums. This is a genuine shame, as I am completely tone deaf and got bored of teaching myself guitar so I guess any kind of career in the rock band arena will now have to be scratched off my list of "Possible New Jobs for 2010".