In which it's the end of this blog. Oh no! It isn't? Oh yes, it is.

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In which I would play at being The French Lieutenant's Woman but it was too windy and I was wearing a parka

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In which quality time is spent with Apple Products

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In which there is The Lull

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In which Festive Relative Visiting Patrol does not allow anything more than drive-by sightseeing

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In which St George has definitely vanquished that fearsome dragon

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In which this is a very good way to digest Christmas pud

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In which not even Bondi Beach nor Copacabana could equal the festive Christmas Eve frolics on Swanage beach

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In which my mother has mad Christmas preparation skills

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In which I am very pleased

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In which it is the end of the term as we know it and I feel fine.

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In which, not for the first time, Duran Duran save me from hell

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In which I only have 12 stamps

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In which I become Mr Creosote

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In which term still hasn't ended

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In which PP and I revel in our pre-Christmas family tradition

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In which I will never feel the same about jumpers again

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In which there is hot pudding

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In which a survival strategy is activated

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In which flocks are rocked around

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In which from 8- 19.00 I am in this room reviewing people

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In which I fail to avoid a cliché

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In which I do not think my origami skills exist

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In which it is the Prodigious Progeny's Sublime Science party

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In which gorgeous things are made

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In which I dress far more appropriately for the frozen north than my charges

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In which progress might well be defined as 'finding alternative uses for a tea towel and Top Gear dressing gown nowadays as this was the outfit of choice amongst early 1st century BC Galilean shepherds'. Apparently.

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In which the annual trip to the Playhouse on PP's birthday is my favourite tradition. Poop poop!

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In which 10 years ago I was sore, frightened and utterly unaware that the best person I would ever meet was on his way

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In which I wish Santa was real and so does my poorly bank account

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In which this Saturday is Kindle, coffee, new hair and Ben Folds Five day

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