Christmas Eve Eve Eve

We’ve entered that manic pre-Christmas phase where everything has to be super clean otherwise Santa won’t come.

It’s the only time of the year, I think, where we wash up immediately after a meal. It’s also the only time of the year we immediately dry the washing up and put it away, rather than letting it drip dry for a while then putting it away. If we had a dishwasher, it would be the only time of the year we actually bothered to empty it.

Obviously Peppa is trying her best to banjax any of the cleaning that we are doing as she is currently taking full advantage of the rainy weather to walk across everything with muddy feet. Clean duvet cover? She’ll sort that out. Although she has, so far, failed in ruining the festive one we’ve put on mum’s bed. Much to her obvious annoyance and she sits and stares at me whilst systematically removing all the tinsel from the tree.

Worktops, check. T-shirt clean on this morning? Let me at it, she seemed to say, leaving a trail of pawprints across it and thus saving me the trouble of having to throw butter, melted chocolate or caramel down it to dirty it during my kitchen-based shenanigans of the day. For shenanigans read “super sexy salted caramel and chocolate thing”. Anything you had to chill for 24 hours before you get down to the nitty gritty of eating it has to be special, right?

Mum’s coming over tomorrow, so we’re having to take apart Carole’s office/study and make it more like a bedroom for guests again. Which means we need to bring the table back down to dine upon at Christmas because I’m not sure – no matter how hard I push for it – we’ll be allowed to eat Christmas dinner huddled in the back bedroom this year.

I think it would be really cosy.

Hugely impractical.

But cosy.