Christmas was good. It could have been diabolical but it was very good. I didn't have Tom this year and although he's sixteen I still miss him on Christmas morning. Last year we were in Antarctica and we walked along the snow beach of Deception Island, followed by three penguins like three wise men waddling after us. And it snowed silently and heavily. This year, no Tom but he called which was wonderful. Wise young man that he is. I visited family and friends, like some Vicar of Dibley, dipping in on turkey dinners and feeling a part of the family and being made welcome as part of the family even if I wasn't. I thank those friends who invited me - Nikki, Julie and Caroline. Thank you so much you lovely people. I now know all families are highly competitive, not just mine, and board games bring this out the win-at-all-costs in even the most timid of folk.
On Christmas morning I drove round the M25 on a beautiful day. The M25 should always be like that. Clear.
Looking at cars brimming with presents and fractious faces. There are happy families and those playing at happy families. And then there are those who don't want to play or can't keep it up, not even for a day. The expectations of happiness at this time of year are over done. Everyone should be smiling like they are on TV, but they are not real, although Eastenders always makes your own Christmas seem delirious in comparison. I'm sure that's why they do it, to put all of the other sugary stuff into perspective.
Boxing Day more friends. Teaching yoga, working on psychology stuff that's interesting, evolving and relevant, and knowing I'm lucky. How cool is that. Oh, and I bought myself some socks. With pink seahorses on.
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