christmas notes

Inhaling the steam from the soaking red cabbage and white wine is like having some sort of nostalgia facial.

Imagine if I raised my face from taking great, compulsive lungfuls of the smell, and I had ten year old skin again.

I was delighted when Olivia said she loved the smell but then she through a shouty tantrum when she realised I was putting raisins in it too. We've bought her way too much stuff.

I survey the bits of the house I've tidied already, layered with a new slick of toys and crumbs, already. I am living my mother's life, as some sort of karmic duty, or dare I say it, punishment.