Boxing Day. 26th December, named after the old English tradition of coming downstairs to find the living room crammed full of discarded packaging from the previous day.
I had made a head start by filling four of our lovely blue recycling sacks with wrapping paper and enough cardboard to build a small shanty town. That left only two carcasses and a quarter-gallon of assorted animal fats on top of the cooker, plus two boys who'd gone to bed too late and were now set for another busy day.
We went to our friends' house so that a) I could see Gills v Southend with a couple of mates b) the ladies could drink copious quantities of vino c) the children could break each other rather than their expensive new toys. All three were achieved and we even managed to squeeze in some Wii Sports. I must admit I wasn't that enthusiastic about buying a Wii - partly because Sarah had repeatedly whipped me at the brain-testing game when we borrowed one a few months back - but have now approved escalated efforts to get one for our joint birthday present.
The football, incidentally, was rubbish but two of our three tickets were comps and that took the edge off it. And I'm glad to report the Southend team coach delivered the ref home safely.
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