December 26th Boxing Day 2008

It’s all over. Christmas Day came and went as fast as a publisher’s royalty cheque.

After midnight communion (where I developed a sore throat, the result of a determination to sing all eight carols whether the woman in front of me liked it or not), the queen and I got to bed at about one forty-five Christmas day morning. I was so excited I didn’t drop off until about three, but woke up with a slight headache and a dry throat around seven thirty in the morning, about as happy as Woolworth’s sweetie supplier.

Between several phone calls to and from family and friends, I wrote and wrote my new Angel book. I made good progress. Meanwhile the queen was downstairs preparing a gargantuan meal to be served up at five-thirty.

Christmas dinner was great, but I had a second helping of Christmas pudding, which was the quintessence of Silverwood gluttony and my personal downfall.

We saw a bit of telly in the evening, and a great little film we had recorded called THE MAN WHO SAVED CHRISTMAS. (Shades of FOYLE’S WAR which we enjoy.) Sounds like a kid’s tale, but it was about a toy factory owner in the US, torn between making armaments or toys during World War 1. The only actor we knew was an amusing crusty old shuffler called Edward Asner. I remember he played an amusing crusty young editor in THE MARY TAYLOR MOORE SHOW a hundred years previously. You might remember him.

Yesterday (and today) there were some top-notch films but we’ve seen them all several times before.

Went to bed early to make up for loss of sleep. However I woke up at 3.20 am this morning. Couldn’t get off again. The overindulgence of Christmas pud was part of the reason. I knew I would pay for it. Anyway, it was not all a loss. I used some of the quiet time to write more of my Angel book until just gone five. Then the queen woke up, so I got up and made us a very early breakfast.

The Christmas pud problem was still with me. There was only one thing to do. At seven o’clock, I got washed, shaved and dressed and went out for a four mile walk. Now that might seem no distance at all to you, but it equates to walking from Land’s End to Melbourne and back to me. And it was absolutely desolate. It was like attending my own funeral procession. I only saw four zombies the entire walk. One every mile. And they were in hoodies and walking big ugly dogs. The streets were about as lively as the main street in Tombstone just before Jesse James, Frank James and Doc Holliday were expected to ride in.

I got back home at 10.35 am. The front of my legs hurt something rotten. The queen just laughed at me. I got undressed, came back to bed and wrote more Angel. I got stuck just after 12 noon, so I began to write this.

You know, the queen and I have had a super Christmas and I hope that - whatever your dreams were for this Christmastime - that they all came true.

One small gripe. The media seems to think that Christmas is all about buying, and high street retailers and whether it’s at a 30%, 50% or 75% discount. I must say, I have never been less interested. It’s true that I am very lucky, but even so, there are stacks of things in life that I would still like, but none of them could be bought from a high street retailer at even 100% discount. They simply haven't anything I want.

In this house, we ignore the media and all that advertising and PR stuff, and those overpaid celebrities pushing their pension schemes, debt advice, building societies, three piece suites and whatever. Join us. Keep the magic of Christmas alive. Do what you want to do and have a wonderful time.