Waiting for Santa

Against all odds, I seem to have made it. The last tourtière is in the freezer; the penultimate tourtière went to the Resident Fan Boy's office party this morning. The remaining Christmas cards were mailed this afternoon. They won't reach their destinations on Christmas Day, but they might make it by the tenth day of Christmas, on January 3rd. I wrote them up while my daughters and the Resident Fan Boy, to elder daughter's ecletic iTune Christmas mix of alternate/rock music, finished trimming our "punk tree", a balsam fir that Friend With Whom I Have Coffee helped me pick up from the Byward Market last Saturday. (She took home the anti-penultimate tourtière.) The fir has spiky shoots jutting out from its triangular silhouette. Someone attached our Shakespeare decoration to one and for once we have an unobstructed view of him -- although he appears to be hanging from a gibbet.

When younger daughter attached the star at the top, it looked like a comet with a tail.

And I've finally bagged, tagged and stashed the Christmas Day gifts under the tree. The presents for the Twelve Days of Christmas stay upstairs until Boxing Day.

In short, I'm bushed, and my knee still hurts, so someone else will have to do the dancing. But if I could do the dancing, this is the sort I'd do:
Maybe you've had enough of "Linus and Lucy", but I never do.

Merry Christmas.