Noel

This Christmas I was away from home with Fiona's family who had kindly invited me to France.

It was as idyllic as one could imagine. I spent at least half of my time at least half cut, or half content somehow; whether through playing cards or reading The Lord of The Rings for the first time.

The draught on the log-burning stove, which was a sort of rustled up cast iron box with a plain glass front, was so ferocious and burned so furiously that we practically emptied a whole wood store by the time we left.

Boxing day, for which I have no photo, was not as nice - I had spent the whole of Christmas evening running back and forth from my bedroom to the bathroom several times an hour, every hour until 7am.

Shrivelled, the mere husk of my former self spent the whole morning and afternoon trying desperately but slowly rehydrate in a peculiar room at the far end of the upstairs landing. Peculiar because it could almost have been a make-shift 1940s hospital. It's a good job I wasn't feverish too, or else I might have been talking with imaginary nurses.

I was able to eat fruit pastels by 4pm.

p.s. Please ignore the Duplo.