“WHEN are we putting the Christmas tree up?” asks Billy on a daily basis. “Soon,” is my repetitive reply. I haven’t even thought about when. I haven’t even started shopping. To be frank, I’m rubbish at Christmas.
I have bought my cards, from charity shops, to ensure the 100 per cent of the money goes to whom it was intended rather than into a supermarket’s coffers. But I must remember to write and send them before December 25.
I should do an online food order, because that’s another thing I leave too late. And only Billy has written a list for Father Christmas, unprompted. He’s a boy who knows what he wants (and that’s football cards).
Bonnie’s technique for telling you what she wants is to sit in front of TV adverts shouting: “Want that! And that!”
“Father Christmas doesn’t listen to little girls with bad manners,” I warn her.
“Want that pleeeease. . .”
