Saturday morning I wake and temperatures have risen, marginally, but enough to melt the snow and leave the pavements grimy. I feel slightly despondent, with the grey, with the drizzle, sit in bed and watch the final episode of Season 3 Gossip Girl, wish I was in New York.
And then we go Christmas tree shopping. Half an hour umm-ing and aah-ing at different specimens, until we all agree on one, small but jaunty, bring it home, place it on some upturned wine crates, decorate it with lights and ribbon and golden bells. C makes dinner, lentil curry, and more mulled wine, other C sticks on the Christmas music and tackles the decoration of the wreath, and as the light slips away all is well again. I venture out to Hammersmith later that night for wine and corn chips, playing cards and drinking games, boys in woollen Christmas jumpers, The Ashes on the television. Miss the last train home, brave two night buses alone at 3am, silently promise myself twenty minutes into a freezing half hour wait for the second that next time I can have a taxi home.
Sunday was the Underground Christmas Market hosted by Ms Marmite Lover, and we have the most wonderfully festive time. Demonstrations and tastings, stall upon stall of goodies (though I confess I bought more for myself than others), gingerbread hot chocolate in the garden, fresh bread from the Aga. Lynne was there with her Papermash stall where I bought a couple of stocking fillers, and was sorely tempted by more Japanese masking tape (check out the Christmas ones), but had to stop myself because M is already on a masking tape buying mission. A bunch of mistletoe on the way home, clementines in the fruit bowl, a mug of tea, internet Christmas shopping whilst I watch Footloose.