Musty

At the request of my much more polite and empathetic better 'alf, I've taken down the post from yesterday complaining about the rude man that came to dinner on Saturday night. Still brings out my inner pugilist, however and my staunch commitment to the ranks of the bourgeoisie.

I am both thrilled and scared to death that Christmas is approaching so rapidly. It doesn't feel so Christmassy because we don't have a tree this year (it seemed pointless as we're going to be away for two weeks and no-one would be here to gaze at it lovingly) and I haven't yet started to bake mince pies (okay I don't bake them, I get them sent over from Miss FP, the Queen of the Mince Pie) or plan a holiday singalongathon, and only a few Christmas cards have arrived. I've yet to do the majority of my present buying and I'm completely at a loss to know what to get my beloved because he says at every opportunity, "Honey, don't buy me a gift this year," which is just about the equivalent of my father asking for "Razorblades." N and I leave on Monday for Scotland and I just can't wait to be in a cold, bleak climate, away from the awfulness of Los Angeles, with its baubles and glitz and dueling Designer Handbags. I can't wait for the smell of wet labradors, musty jackets and the bracken on the moors.