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So here it is, Merry Christmas. I’ve returned to the Fictional Town of Paddock Wood to do the Christmas Thing, so arguing with parents, brothers and pets about where all the glasses are, who drank the last of the pineapple juice (Nobody, yet. I saw it and hid it before they had a chance) and such stuff. Presents have been bought and wrapped and placed in their traditional place under the tree.

And the stockings are on the bedroom doors.

I’m trying to work out how long I’ve had my Christmas stocking. At least as long as we’ve been in this house, I think, which means since I was about six. It’s unfashionably small – as I noted as I walked around the shops this year, newer christmas stockings are about four times mine – it has Snoopy on it, it’s red (My older-younger brother’s was blue, but it’s been lost. Actually, since only me and Ben have them and Matt – my younger-younger brother – doesn’t , that probably puts them since before he was born, which means I’ve had it at least 18 of my 22 years), and it’s probably the thing that tells me most of all that it’s actually Christmas.

Mostly because of the age, and because of the place. If, when we move to Letchworth at the end of January, we stop moving house every nine months – as I have done for the past four years – I would be 40 before I’d lived there as long as I’ve lived here, which is frankly pretty scary.

I’d take a photo of the stocking, BTW, but I lost my camera a couple of weeks ago at an AFP Green Man meet. Ah well.

I’ve no intention of being near a computer for very long tomorrow, so I’m putting the last Christmas MP3 up now:

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