Lies and deceit, deceit and lies

It strikes me every year and, every year as I get more cynical, it strikes me with increasing force, that Christmas, this great time of faith, hope and love, is based on deceit.

There is the great deceit that we perpetrate upon our children, that a kindly old man with a red coat will come into their bedrooms when they are asleep and give them something wonderful to remember. I mean, weird or what? I recall being terrified of that old man and my parents having to reasssure me that he wasn't real at all, just a big fat lie.

And there are all the little "white" lies of the social occasions.

"Oh, it's lovely, you shouldn't have!" (It's horrible and I wish you hadn't)

"They're delicious, they really are, but I honestly couldn't manage another thing" (I wouldn't put another of those greasy things in my mouth if you paid me in ingots of solid gold)

"We'd love to pop round but I'm afraid we can't" (Thank heavens)

I don't think I lie as much all year as I lie at Christmas, one way or another. What a lovely family time it is.

Tins

I was in Morrisons yesterday and saw - tins of fried onions.

Who on earth, if they wanted fried onions, wouldn't fry an onion but would open a tin instead?

And what normal person would think of putting fried onions into tins in the first place?

Socks, and, Trollope

Just to reassure all you eager readers - yes, I am still alive. Cold, grumpy, but not quite dead yet. Miserable in the cold weather, can't get warm, wearing vests, socks over tights inside boots, scarf indoors. Eating too many biscuits for comfort and putting on weight. Last winter's best trousers are too tight to wear. Found a lovely pair in John Lewis yesterday, warm and lined and nice, and £125 marked down to £50. Tried them on and Husband said they made me look fat. No, they didn't make me look fat, I am fat. Didn't buy them. Hate Husband. Hate myself.

Borrowed Trollope from the library tonight, the first of the six Barsetshire novels. Reading Trollope is for old people, it's about the last thing you do before you die.

And it isn't even the shortest day yet.