Christmas is coming. The goose is getting fat. But enough of me. Finally on Friday we bought a tree. "It feels fake," my eldest said, hanging baubles. "It's not the tree that's fake," I said, "It's us." Despite playing White Christmas on a loop, we can't get the mood right. On Saturday, Rodin at the Royal Academy. I was drawn to a sculpture of an old woman. She who was once the helmet maker's beautiful wife. I burst into tears. It's been a long year:-o That night the X Factor Final. Feigning illness I skipped cocktails in Wandsworth to curl up alone with prosecco and chocolate. Four hours of Simon Cowell. Joy;-) News spread. By the second half of the doings, I had three companions. We cheered, ranted and got pissed. What uplift when Leona won! Sunday night was similarly hijacked. The girls were freshly returned from Oxford when a local newcomer dropped by. Bringing with her a teenage son. Hormone levels immediately surged chez nous. By the end of the night the eldest had a gig with his band. The goodbyes, in the early hours, were genuinely warm... Last night, my ex ma-in-law came for tea. And gave me my second poinsettia of the season. Why? Later we were joined by a prize bitch. And her owner. Who arrived in a nineteen-twenties feather headdress. Which she gifted to my youngest. "Don't let her ruin it," she whispered, "It's solid silver and cost a hundred quid." I must remember to hide it when the cleaner's doing the dusting;-)