Good evening internet. Does it feel like Christmas yet where you are?
Here it feels like Christmas, but in a testing centre for agricultural machinery. It is tremendously late at night, so late it is practically tomorrow, but the CFO is snoring like a tractor, and has proved impervious to all my tried and tested techniques (rolling him over, kicking him, sticking my finger up nose, garrotting him with duvet cover, hissing "SHUT UP" in his ear, putting my head right up against his and saying, loudly, "If you don't stop that I will fucking suffocate you"). Consequently I have had to come downstairs to move tree ornaments around in a neurotic fashion to give the tree the precise 'scandi minimalism meets repulsive plastic shit' look I am striving for. Hopefully tomorrow will be photo day, when I take pictures of everything I have promised you, from eyebrows to coat, to Christmas tree, because it needs to be seen. The tree looks like it is having some kind of acute schizophrenic crisis. It's screaming for help, I tell you.
The best tree ornaments are the senseless, hideous ones that get dragged out year after year, made of smashed up tin foil and baler twine and fossilised chocolate. I know this in my heart of hearts. At 'home' (yes, I am 34 and have not lived there for 16 years and she has been dead for five, but my mother's house is still called home to me) we had a range of these - psychedelic coloured lights, tin can circa 1979 with no distinguishing features but a matchstick glued to the top; cake topper made of white, slightly iridescent plastic, hideously mutilated army of red elves (known as "the lads"), looking for all the world like entrants in some kind of alternative paralympic christmas jollity event, Laughing Cow box covered in foil with two straws stuck on the back ("star"), balding purple tinsel circa 1975. Every year mum would plead with me and the Space Cadette to let her have a 'nice' tree, with white twinkly lights and no balding flocked Babycham fawn. Every year we would refuse, indignantly. I get it now, as I strive to have a 'nice' tree whilst conceding that I must accept the dead eyed knitted Father Christmas with his hot pink knitted flesh, the peculiar leprechaun figure made from a golf ball and pipe cleaners and a St Nicolas made from a collapsed water bottle and an economy sized packet of tenacious purple glitter. I am sorry mum. We were evil. Karma has come to get me though.
In further shocking Christmas developments, the inhabitants of Waffle Towers are refining their Christmas lists.
Fingers (who keeps telling me he is "hungry" for his - non-chocolate - advent calendar): surveillance equipment for secret cupboard - cctv camera, trip switch, electric fence (honest to god, he has asked for this and everything else on this list). Washing machine. Vacuum cleaner. Other domestic appliances, ideally conducive to cleanness and order. Lucky Charms cereal.
Lashes: Live cameleon. Other small lizards (various, must move fast and be mignon). Things on which to experiment (Hadron Collider, particle accelerator, raisins). Calculator.
CFO: Machinery (any). Cure for moth infestation. Reptoboost. Insulation. Wife.
Me: McQueen dress. Bedlington terrier puppy. Monifa the baby pgymy hippo. Small Vuillard oil painting. Silver Robert Clergerie shoes. Eyelashes. Unlimited spending spree in Magma. Fun. Wife.
One can only hope that liberal application of champagne on one side and chocolate coins on the other will cover any possible disappointments, but it seems more likely that the sound of wailing and gnashing of teeth will be heard from one end of Belgium to the other.
Tune in tomorrow for possible photos and the results of the inaugural hibernation weigh in. Will they stay or will they go? Who is up for elimination in the crisper drawer? Place your bets.. Also, last chance for present clinic! Last edition will be Monday, so get your last minute difficult customers' details into Waffle mail.
Sweet jesus I can hear him from here - I am going to put earplugs up his nose. There isn't a jury in the land that would convict me..