Day Seventy Seven

Furrgus 

The deep snow has deterred any of the usual suspects from entering our domain. 

But we had a quick once around the neighbourhood anyway to get some fresh air. 

Our poker game went far into the evening and we only stopped when Miss Niamh arrived home.

She told us that she had another fabulous birthday party, she and all her friends, even Mister Aidan were there. 

Then they went to a pub, and after that they went and ate all the pasta in Mister Aidan’s refrigerator. 

She told us it was an epic evening.

But but then we were all too tired to continue so it was off to bed for all. 

This morning everyone dragged themselves out of bed, including Niamh and Dugal. 

Because it is Christmas time The Three Trees was open on a Sunday and they needed Miss Niamh to sell people stones. 

So Mrs. T drove her to work and then went downtown to continue her shopping.

Craig spent the morning experimenting with a new brand of espressos. 

We went for lunch at the Porridge restaurant even though it required us to cross the very steep bridge across the canal. 

When we got home Mrs. T brought almond croissants for lunch. 

So Craig took one and went into the den to watch the American football. And yet another coffee. 

The World Cup final was on. 

But by common consent we boycotted it. 

I mean having to choose between the French or the Argentinians. Really now. 

And there I was seconded to the Paras at the battle of Goose Green. 

Fortunately Mrs. T needed our help putting away the stash of groceries while she started on the multiple Christmas Tourtières.

That kept us occupied until Mrs. T and Kathy walked over the breakfast bridge to Kathy’s mother’s retirement home. 

By then it was certainly time for a sweep of the property. 

Which takes a fair bit of planning nowadays. So many choices.

Boots or snowshoes, snowshoes or mukluks. 

Long kilts or the special and fashionable gortex lined kilts. 

Hats or tams. 

Hot water bottles or brandy. So many choices. 

It takes forever to get ready.

Yesterday Mrs T talked to our local butcher to make sure the ham would be ready for Christmas.

They are real butchers, not unload a truck butchers, and they were Emmet’s godfather’s butcher of choice. 

And they alway get Mrs. T just what she wants. 

But apparently the family is currently conducting poll to decide on the entire menu for Christmas dinner. 

And everyone gets to vote. Even us. May goodness. Wouldn’t cook be appalled. 

Mrs T picked up Miss Niamh so she could have a nice hot bath before dinner. 

We got back before they did and were having a much need afternoon nap and did not awaken until dinner was well over.

But since we had stopped in at Irene’s for a double order of nachos we managed to survive, without any embarrassing stomach rumbling. 

Of course when we revived we found out that Mrs. T had made our Niamh’s fabulously delicious tortellini soup.

But having missed the opportunity we were uninclined to ask for a tasting sample. 

And as we were up until the wee hours we decided to retire early tonight. 

Traditionally the whole of Christmas requires late nights, so we need to stock up on our beauty sleep.