Santa Claus is Coming to Town...

“Any special delivery instructions?” said the screen as I concluded my on-line Christmas decoration shopping.
“Yes, DO NOT deliver if husband at home!” I typed before clicking “Confirm Purchase”.
Chickie and I had been excited for quite some time. Our Christmas cards had been sat in the drawer, all stamped up and ready, since October. Netted bags of M&S chocolate tree puddings had been purchased in triplicate and were stroked daily and my fabulous glass star lights had arrived along with three decoupage baubles, one felt angel and my Miracle on 34th Street dvd. Yes, we were definitely ready, we were just waiting for Christmas to catch up.
Then, finally, it did. On 1 December, Chickie and I were granted £30 for a tree. Chickie cuddled it, declaring it ‘boot-i-ful!’
Then, time for my favourite part of the Christmas ritual, sending Accountant into the loft with a ridiculously small torch to find the decorations. Chickie and I stood at the bottom of the ladder, enjoying Daddy’s festive expletives as he cracked his head on various beams.Before delving into the boxes with Chickie in search of yuletide treasure, I gave Accountant a very special box of his own. After all, there was nothing like the untangling of Christmas lights to inspire festive cheer. As Chickie and I laughed and cuddled by the tree, it was much like a scene from a Werthers Original advert. Except for the bitter background ranting from Accountant, now entangled in 12ft of green electrical flex and bleeding from the forehead.
An hour passed and Accountant had retreated into a dark world of rage. He hadn’t spoken for half an hour but had managed to work his left arm and a leg free. When he eventually suckered the hanging star lights onto the window, he exhaled deeply and plugged them in.
“Why they not working daddy?” A disappointed Chickie looked to his father for answers. Forced to appear calm in front of such a sweet face, Accountant guaranteed his son that the house would soon be transformed into a twinkling winter wonderland. Chickie waited as daddy patiently tested each bulb in turn and then resuckered them into position before turning them on.
Chickie gasped, “Well done Daddy!” Accountant lapped up the praise. He was less smug when Chickie began eating the lights and realised he’d have to relocate them.
Occasionally, as Chickie and I snuggled under a blankie on the sofa watching Miracle on 34th Street, we would glance over to see daddy licking, relicking, suckering, licking and resuckering his way across the French doors.
To give Accountant his dues, he spent another 20 minutes watching all those little suckers ping off before throwing the whole lot on the floor and stomping upstairs to sulk.
Unfortunately, his son, promised a spectacular display, followed him up the stairs. So he came back, the familiar sound of pinging and swearing lighting up my face at least- if nothing else!