So I had a whole other post to put up for Christmas and then I woke up, with the flu. Our farmer is outside, Christmas Eve is busy on a farm, no, Christmas Eve is even more busy on a farm as we’re trying to put the wheels in motion so that the farm can run on minimum labour over Christmas. So he’s gone. But alas, his children are here, right here, under my flu-ey feet.

Many’s a time I thought during the week of writing about how I’d like to freeze this week in my memory banks for my old age, wistfully rocking in my chair, grey haired and nostalgic and then one of them dropped something. We’ve broken a record this week with the amount of breakages; bowls, cups, butter dish, vase oh and a lamp. Whirlwindy boys, wrecking my house as I try to keep it a home. Christmas is wilder with storms that I probably can’t send them out into.

I wanted to write to you about the beautiful home made mince pies I made in the assembly line of small boys that probably brought on this flu. Stuff of Christmas nightmares. They were tasty but not alas tasty enough to warrant trying the patience of this Saint over two hours. Perhaps, I could tell you about placing the lovely candles in the window welcoming Jesus as in every Kerry homestead. But then, the cat is looking a little worse for ware and all I can think is ‘Jesus, don’t take the cake, not til St. Stephans Day.’ So as I write and sneeze and google (CPR for cats), I wish you and yours a very Merry Christmas.

Love always, Your Girl in worn out wellies,

Anne
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