Here's the traditional baubles post. Just in case you thought you'd avoided it. And other musings.
I promise the third one isn't an earring.
So, Rick Parfitt. RIP. What a rocker. Sherlock and I had a singalong earlier.
Mycroft is cooking tomorrow, because I'm working. Sherlock has graciously allowed that John could bike over to see me in the afternoon, providing he returns with any interesting gossip regarding murders, of course. Sherlock has also announced he will make cheese and cranberry parcels for a starter. And they are both currently making a trifle. I'm fairly sure this is partly a gambit on Sherlock's part to stay up late.
Nicky rang earlier and we had a laugh about the year Mum defrosted bread sauce instead of brandy butter and covered the Christmas pudding in it. We all pretended not to notice. Even her. Or she was probably too pissed to notice. There was brandy on it too.
She's doing okay. We'll go and see her between now and New Year.
We're having fish tonight, which is a more Italian tradition. Mycroft and Anthea might go to midnight mass. Well, other people might, too, but they were conspiring about it earlier. Sherlock announced it was stupid, and then proceeded to ask a lot of questions about it. Then got distracted by putting Christmassy stuff under his microscope.
Work has, of course, been manic. Nothing like enforced family get-togethers and cheer to make people decide they'd rather spend the next few years in jail.
The boys have very graciously announced that we will wait to open presents (some presents, Sherlock interjects) until I get home.
Mycroft has helped me to add this:
|My present from John!|