It was my last day at work yesterday - for the year, and at that particular place. I start another job in the middle of January - looking after a newborn baby. Oh how happy I will be working for myself, yet again; freelance, without the grappling-irons
My daughter and granddaughter were here with us on Wednesday night for our (what has become traditional) own, special pre-christmas dinner and gift unwrapping. Granddaughter (and niece) B as usual kept us amused and entertained with her usual natural aplomb. She is always the Santa and has the job of handing out the presents from under the tree - and does it beautifully. We are putty in her hands. She charms and delights us without missing a beat.
I always say Christmas is busier (harder?) for females than males ... don't hate me males. But it has to be said. There. I've said it. Not grizzling ... just stating.
Only two more days to go and it's Christmas once again - the 54th Christmas I have experienced so far. Put like that, I sound ancient! So why does it feel as if it's only about the twentieth? It's a puzzle.
My Poetry Thursday poem is from my book,'Feeding The Dogs'. I probably chose this one because it makes an allusion to Christmas, but then again it may be because it was just where the book opened.
of honeyed wood
shaped for an iron barrel
of fine, dapper lines
with finger-shaped trigger
kept separated from its bullets
and only taken out to kill
injured or old sheep dogs
or sick cats, or geese at Christmas.
Kept in the dark
propped up in a corner
in the wardrobe
behind Mum's lavender
dress for best, the one
she always wore to the Races
along with the necklace
Dad bought one anniversary
with its fiery, cut-glass beads
spiked with light and sparks
that shoot from her throat.