I’ve always resisted the temptation to write a letter to go with the few Christmas cards I send because there’s a fine line between sending news and showing off. Whereas I tend to write a warts and all version of my year when I’m blogging, the Christmas Letter always seems to be full of perfection.
Here’s mine. It’s an antidote to sweetness and perfection, a sort of Christmas Anti-Letter. I have used a different colour to indicate it should be read with your tongue in your cheek.
Last year we had a wonderful Christmas in Suffolk. Sadly it has all gone downhill since then.
The children, whilst not particularly successful or good at anything, unlike the children of everyone I know, are both planning on going travelling in Spring. Unfortunately, they are both planning on coming back, but it’s a start.
I suppose this is due to poor parenting so, as usual, I will get the blame. It has always been the same – It’s the same the whole world over It’s the poor what gets the blame It’s the rich what gets the pleasure Ain’t it all a bloomin’ shame? as the song says.
Julia continues to suffer from being married to an idiot. I can’t help thinking she could emulate the Spartans and suffer in silence but she seems to disagree. She shows too much interest in the plots of Poirot for my liking but in the absence of readily available household poisons (unlike the house and garden of the 1930s) I am still quite healthy. She did, however, look at the possibility of visiting the Poison Garden at Anwick Castle last year.
I wasn’t too keen on that.
That’s about it. If I wanted people to know more about what I’m doing I’d write more often.
We’re having turkey sandwiches with mayonaisse, cranberry and stuffing on Boxing Day. It’s the best bit of the year.
All the best,
With any luck that should stop people sending me appalling upbeat letters.
Sorry about the repeated picture – I only have one Christmas photo.