And I’m feeling a touch melancholic. (Which is one up from alcoholic, which is what I've been feeling for most of December, having approached 'social drinking' occasions in a professional capacity that I wish to downgrade to amateur status in the New Year).
My man is working nights, and is apparently in a control centre on the motorway somewhere (he’s normally in a van, so I hope for any motorists’ sake they don’t let him anywhere near any computer equipment).
Me and the kids have watched Gremlins. You wouldn’t get away with half of that shit in a kids’ film nowadays: it’s great.
We’ve also been out for our annual Christmas Eve curry (enlivened this year by my mate’s birthday cake candles actually setting off the restaurant’s smoke alarm. I’m not saying she’s old, etc).
My girl is fast asleep. My boy is very much awake. This is very much par for the course.
But something is very different this year: my children have both informed me (with no small element of delight), that they no longer believe in Father Christmas.
Seeing as my boy is a cheeky know-it-all, I’m surprised I got away with it until he was nine. (“I know it’s your parents. Santa couldn’t got round the world, and I’ve seen the paper, and you write all the labels. You try to change your handwriting, but it’s rubbish.”)
Seeing as my daughter is nineteen, I should count myself lucky that I’ve had these extra years of her believing. Special needs has some special advantages sometimes. But she’s decided she’s all grown-up. (“I don’t believe in Santa, Mummy, or Jesus. And you can celebrate Christmas how you want to. But I do still want presents.”)
So I'm feeling a bit pensive and a little misty-eyed at the end of an era.
Although I still put a mince pie out for Santa, for tradition’s sake.
It is OK to leave Gizmo near the mince pie after midnight, isn’t it?
Song is Low - Some Hearts (At Christmas Time)