Is it totally, inexcusably Scrooge-ish to admit to hating Boxing Day? Before you scream ‘Yes!’ whilst resolutely toasting the Messiah, wearing your cracker crown and feverishly thumbing through the Christmas Radio Times, hear me out.
Everything fun about Christmas is over and done with, at least until New Year's Eve, which seems like a lifetime away. Presents? Opened and, provided the giver has been thoughtful enough to leave the tags on, ready to be returned and exchanged. Food? I’ll never eat again (til turkey curry tonight). Alcohol? Ug, another G&T and I’ll officially turn into Pat Butcher. A nice, crisp, refreshing walk to clear away the cobwebs? I had my annual turn around the park yesterday – that’s quite enough exercise for this year thank you.
The grandparents are downstairs ensconced on the sofa watching Sky News, which was on its fifth repeat last time I checked. My dad’s frantically exercising on the rowing machine, terrified of the extra pounds just waiting to pounce on his poor middle-aged, ever-expanding waistline. My mum is pacing the hall, consumed with guilt at her desperation to hit the Boxing Day sales, and my brother has escaped to his girlfriend’s house, where yet another turkey-themed extravaganza awaits.
And me? I’m blogging for Christ’s sake – need I say more?!
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