A Poor Christmasser

I'm not a very good Christmasser this year- late or non-existent card-sending, poor present purchase and badly organised social life. Work seems to have ended very late this year,  and even on Friday I was writing a (thoroughly-deserved) reference for someone.
But today I made a loaf of bread. The Offsprogs have eaten half of it already, so it must be OK. I brought the little Christmas tree in from the back yard, and it's got lights on it.
I have lost about three miles of fairy lights somewhere in the house, but can't find them anywhere.
Have you nicked them, readers?
Last night I went with some pals (including my Champagne Friend) to the carol service at Southwark Cathedral, and we managed the 'you don't come to church, so here are some strange carols' part of the service perfectly adequately.
It's nut roast for Christmas dinner if any of us can be bothered to make it; vegetables and Yorkshire pudding if we can't.
We (mostly me) have eaten almost all of the After Eight's in their little record sleeves.
No matter how hard the Offsprogs pretend, I know there are more in there, all for me!
The only downer is the complete lack of Cheese Footballs, apparently on the entire planet.
Or have you got them, Northern Powerhouse?
Maybe Peek Freans (or whoever they are) thinks the Metropolitan Elite don't eat such things. We get Twiglets (pronounced 'Twiglahts') and olives, with hummus and other such slop, and we talk about Jeremy Corbyn in hushed tones while (we are told) the ex-miners celebrate Boris and the Tories.
Oh the joy of stereotypes!
100%!
(is that a Stormzy 100% or a Tory 100%?).
I dreamt that McDad died a second time last night: that's how awful things feel. Being the mother of two twenty-somethings who have directly suffered at the hands of the Tories, and lecturing in an institution where the hopelessness engendered by their selfish policies manifests itself in extreme anxiety in many of it's students, I'm not taking kindly to self-righteous editorials in papers that should know better (that's you, The Guardian), who will only be satisfied when actual Jesus takes over the Labour Party.
Don't you realise that the Tory press would slaughter him, too?
Many people that I know are at full pelt holding up the collapsing old building that is post-colonial Britain, a building shored up by narcissistic men (and Katie Hopkins) who are painting over it's guilty cracks with a disgusting shade of racism.
Oh deary me.
I'm exhausted.
Bring on lazy Christmas Day.
I suspect the nut loaf ingredients will still be piled on the side in the kitchen on Boxing Day.