Merry Christmas, if you like Christmas. Bearable Sunday to you, otherwise.
Jane is napping, my mother is napping, and Steve and I are nestled all snug on the sofa being kept warm by our portable computing devices. The earlier part of the day was an orgy of piddly plonkety plinkity plong as Jane made full and festive use of her new avant garde art music toy piano, alternating with bouts of watching as much Shaun the Sheep as her greedy little heart desired.
Later we will go to our usual Christmas night party, featuring a fine and motley buffet of more or less seasonal foods, hours of singing, and a musical saw.
Earlier in the week we went on a date, not alas to see Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy as we had planned--damn you, limited release dates--but a date nonetheless. As usual, we found that not fifteen minutes into our time as two adults alone doing adult things with only adults, we were mutually compelled to break out in a fugue of Janeisms.
"Cheese pie! Yeah? Yes. Yessss."
"Mook? Cake? Kiki? Yes. Cankoo."
"Yeah-yeah? Nooo, me me it mine."
I'm glad we took advantage of this opportunity to have a really sound conversation about serious intellectual topics. No doubt the people at the next table were, too.