It feels like we're hurtling towards Christmas at breakneck speed. The lists here are being constantly added to, though it's all too clear that some tasks (like 'paint the living room' and 'buy and have fitted new interior doors') are unlikely (as in not. a. hope. in. hell.) to be ticked off any time soon.
Lists left safely at home, the Boy and I spent a couple of days in London at the end of last week (we've since caught up with the Advent calendar windows opening).
Predictably, we packed lots in: walked the festive streets of the capital from morning till night, took much needed pit stops to eat good food, drink good coffee, people (and dog) watch and eavesdrop (' A miracle will happen, it will'), bumped into (literally) the Richard part of Richard and Judy, turned down the chance of meeting Mark Rylance (he may be an Oscar winner but, apologies to any fans, his voice just grates), popped into the Monacle Christmas market, fraternised with a couple of reindeer (surprisingly dainty droppings for such large animals), acquired more books (resistance is futile), snooped on a wedding, admired the window displays, Christmas lights and decorations.
We came home footsore and laden with goodies, though one tasty looking treat from here somehow ended up in the wrong mouth.
He's wily, that Boo.
Now, a question.
What do you do when you find yourself at your first airport for your first trip abroad?
You make a run for it. Of course.