Dreaming of a white sand Christmas

Christmas is coming, there is a mountain of presents waiting to be wrapped in my wardrobe – ooops, given away my special secret hiding place now – and there are relatives about to descend. When I passed the butcher’s in the village, I saw that the last day for ordering your free-range, organic, no doubt privately-schooled and tuition fees-paid turkey has already passed.  Small wonder, then, that my thoughts have turned, inexorably, to ……… tinsel mistletoe mince pies exotic holidays. As far away from Dulwich as possible, please.

It suddenly seems like an awfully long time since we were in Barbados. All right, it was only in April, and we stayed a lot longer than we were supposed to because of the ash cloud (why on earth did I make such a silly fuss about getting back as soon as we could? We should have stayed much longer) but it seems like a lifetime since I felt the sun warming my skin and the prickle of warm sand beneath my feet. I usually don’t even like being hot – but there’s something about being completely, relentlessly cold for what seems like months (it’s nearly two weeks now since the temperature dropped in South London – in DD time, that’s, what, nearly a million years?) that makes me crave the sticky embrace of sun lotion and long for melted icecream to run down my fingers from an over-ambitiously stuffed cornet.

Sigh. I might as well face it. I’m officially broke, so I’m staying put. But, while my body is in Dulwich, my soul is lapping up luxury holidays  on the blissful internet. Happy holidays, everyone!

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