We have had a Christmas drama. I didn’t say much about it as I was ashamed of my own selfishness.
At Christmas, the prospect of relaxing in your own sitting room is far more potent than the idea of an exotic holiday.
But we have been having a chimney breast and wood-burning stove installed.
Everything in our sitting room has been covered in sheets of plastic as if we had made the decor choice ‘murder investigation ‘.
The Christmas tree was queueing outside the back door, the unused fairy-lights clustering on the landing.
I am so callous that in this era of displaced families and refugees I just really wanted my fireplace finished by the time that Pascoe, Perran and Carenza got home for Christmas.
The fireplace guy suffered various setbacks, becoming grimmer as the weeks passed. Finally with Pascoe and Carenza already here and Perran on his way the woodburner went in last Friday.
Okay, so the glass is broken and we can’t use it until we get a replacement.
Okay, so there’s still a gap that needs filling down the side of the fireplace.
But the plastic has come off the furniture, the tree has gone up. We are home.
Now all that we need to do is not switch on the TV news.