There’s leftovers and hangovers and everything else in between. Plus, your house looks like a bombsite no matter what you do to fix it.
I thought these frustrated feelings would melt away as we celebrated our first festive period with our baby. I couldn’t have been more off the mark.
In five days we travelled 200 miles, having spent Christmas in Belfast, via Glasgow and back. We packed the baby and the bulldog along with three suitcases and by the time we returned the junk inside the car had multiplied much like that scene in Germlins.
My once-stylish Gorgie flat now resembles a “Jungle Jim’s”, a fact I’ve made peace with since Gabe seems to love it.
But when the other half announced I may have to halve my wardrobe space to accommodate the stuff we accumulated in the space of a week I was not so keen. You see, my dresses are extensions of me. Some of said frocks have been around longer than the Belfast boy himself, and that’s more than a decade!
So since we can’t move as no-one is getting a mortgage any time soon the next best thing is convincing 16 other flats to let me extend into the garden. That way my clothes can hang in peace. A long shot, but it’s worth asking.