O Come All Ye Faithful is on its final, huge, Carols from Kings verse. Cha cha cha.
An hour and half ago a solo boy with a solo verse ripped my doing head apart for just a few seconds, leaving my eyes all stingy and my cheeks wet. He gets me every year, the git.
I wupped the hand mixer on full when some other poor public school puppet chanted some stuff about snakes, sin and suffering. Extra rum for the iced rum sauce.
Oven is warming, the star cutter is as sharp as the angel; veggies are piled to peel, pare, prepare.
Egg whites chilling, pomegranates ready to spill.
There's a bottle or four to open, or so a couple of oranges and a scatter of cloves have told me.
Smoked salmon, gammon, turkey crown, all know their lines though their parts might be new.
The bacon remembers to wrap a sausage scarf, the choccies to shrug off their coats.
Satsumas and stockings make their rendezvous. They would giggle if they could.
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