No, nothing as exotic as that, just a bout of gall bladder attack thanks to my excesses of the night before Christmas. Damn bile duct. Not that this is a chronicle of my personal health woes, but I just thought I'd give you an explanation or you might think I was an even bigger loser than you already do, typing away underneath the waxing sleigh (jingle jingle).
I've been adopted into a family where they do a big meal on the evening of the 24th. Fatty liver and salmon and champagne, that sort of thing. Hence my current sorry state.
Where I come from, Christmas eve is all about the anticipation of the day to come, last minute wrapping of presents and putting out milk for Santa and a carrot or a biscuit for Rudolf, or was it the other way round? I can still remember the delicious rustling coming from downstairs as I tried to get to sleep up in my bedroom as a little nipper.
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Whatever, believing in simply one less god that your average religious person, I just get on with the usual preparations, 'celebrations' and general feasting and overdoing it as usual. The family aspect of it is nice, of course, and I'm as much of a fan as the next person, especially for the little ones.
It's tradition, after all, and without traditions where would we be as a culture. As traditions go, there's worse than Christmas, so have a good one.
The medicine seems to be working so I'm back off to bed before getting up again in about an hour and a half probably, zombie-like, to start opening presents. Ho ho ho.
And why not...