I just got home from the Dads' Club Xmas party with Poppy. We played 'pass the parcel', and I had to force myself not to hold the parcel until the music stopped. Then they announced that Santa was coming. I was very excited, much more so than Pops, who hasn't grasped the concept of Christmas yet, let alone Santa. I was even more excited when Santa came in, ho-ho-ho-ing, and turned out to be a rastafarian. You don't get anough black Santas, if you ask me. Poppy immediately wandered up to him looking for a pressie - so perhaps she does get the Father Christmas concept after all.
Last night was our office Christmas party, which was like one of those documentaries about Binge Drinking Britain. I was mixing drinks with the best of them, but as usual was unable to keep up with Buffy, who was doing her best to consume the EU Wine Lake. Have you ever tried to get a cab when you're with a girl who's so drunk she can't make both her eyes look in the same direction at the same time? We finally found a cabbie foolish enough to take us, though he eyed Buffy warily all the way, gripping a carrier bag in his fist in case she made any signs of throwing up. We made it back home without any vomiting, though my beloved did end up flat on her back in the middle of the road. I think I might just have saved her life.
We're both paying the price for our over-indulgence now. We're going to get healthy in 2009 and have a life that is less like a really long episode of Shameless.