Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house...

It's Christmas Eve. We've had cullen skink for lunch, and have braved the crowds in the village to collect the butcher's order. (Dad, who did an independent trip to the village in the car to collect a large and unwieldy bag of non-Christmas-related cat litter, reports that the All-England Bad Drivers' Annual Faff is well underway.)

So it's now time to decorate the house. However, ( a crisis is afoot )

Cum cantibus in choro

Well, you can all stop panicking. We didn't have to cancel Christmas.

( The box was found. )

This afternoon, we wandered down to church to go to the Crib Service. And were greeted by some slightly alarming news: ( we've lost the crib. )

Now, having joined the church choir in the pub until they departed to serenade the Christmas diners in the local hotel, I'm home and warm in front of a proper fire. The tree is copiously over-decked with garish baubles, the presents are piled up for the morning, and the cat is regarding us with thinly-veiled contempt.

Happy Christmas, all.