Sunday, 11 December 2011

The Milka Father Christmas, and other stories...

I'm sitting in my bed, with three candles burning, and the sounds of traditional carols streaming into my ears.

A small milka Father Christmas is winking at me from my bookcase, my nails are tinted a shade of burgundy and my feet are snuggled in their red woollen socks.

I am feeling remarkably festive.

This weekend was the Marlborough Street Massive's Christmas Weekend. We spent Saturday bustling about beautiful little shops, buying trinkets and toffees and hot chestnuts. It was ridiculously lovely. There was a nativity play, with real live animals and people dressed up in excellent costumes, speaking beautiful words and singing Little Donkey and Away in a Manger and other delightfully festive songs.

Then we went back to a bungalow filled with Christmas tree and DIY and tea, and sat about catching up and sitting and hearing about each others' lives.

After an evening of preparing, partying, cooking, changing, tasting, mulling, baking, and brewing, we ate the best meal of the year, and shared Buck's fizz and rosé wine, and ate until we shouldn't have. With bellies bursting and dresses a little too tight, we lounged beside the log fire (I'm not making any of this up - this is how perfect the weekend was), passing round parcels and presents and opening cards, until the fire had burnt down, and Kate Bush had finished serenading us with her fifty names for snow, and all the wrapping paper was no longer keeping secrets, but had been demoted to fire fuel or recycling scraps.

At this point, we crawled into our respective beds and slept until our body clocks woke each other up the next morning.

I flipping loved it.

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