So Hubby and I did The Christmas Shop: 1 ½ solid hours of hell to get down to the unfeasibly large shopping centre, and then another 40, count ‘em, 40 minutes to find a parking space. We ended up shoe-horned in to a teeny space, miles from any of the shops on the very far side of TK Maxx and our first sortie into Smith’s Toys ended in us swiftly walking back out again having clocked one look at the fifteen-strong queues at every checkout and vowing to make our purchases online. Following a rain-soaked sprint across the car park, then across the road, then across the other car park to get into the main shopping centre, we decided that we’d lost our Christmas spirit in a BIG way. There followed a very unseasonal (and somewhat soggy) argument about the merits of sparkling icicle lights versus chaser lights, and how many on one row really stretch across a single house. People stared and everything.

Regrouping, however, with the help of Ronald McDonald, we managed to get most of our pressies, including (in that most grown up of ways) presents for ourselves. No surprises there then.

Our biggest surprise, though, came on our return, another 2 hour’s drive later (diverted through Kells following yet another fatal collision on the N3 - the third this week). It turns out that not only can greyhounds really sit, they can also climb Christmas trees, as was evident when we walked in to find a rather wonky Christmas tree stripped bare of every single chocolate tree decoration, and a very fat, burping greyhound. Furthermore, #1 informed me this morning that Bertie has very festive sparkly poo. Santa’s little helper, eh?

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