Put your helmet on.
The first of December is upon us. Before I started writing, at this point in the year I would be champing at the bit to get the decorations up, and knee deep in sausage rolls, and other little delicacies for the freezer. This year all I’ve been doing is writing manically, but thoughts of baubles and trees are now gaining the upper hand over scribbling. Growing up with a gorgeous, crazy, Irishwoman as a mother not only leaves me with lots of fantastic, if unusual, memories of childhood, it also leaves me with the burden of a rather large set of superstitions. It’s bad luck to so much as open the box of baubles before the official twelfth day before the twenty fifth.
I do love the bling. And also the kitsch. Give me a pile of shiny things, and a gaudy plastic chocolate fountain, and I suddenly become a…
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