"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times."

I thought I would take respite from tax return HELL by writing up my annual triangular winetasting tour of Britain (aka Christmas). It seems to have gone on for a very long time this year and also, oddly, to be only five minutes ago that we left. Before we left, there was a week of carol concerts and services (during which I sated my choral withdrawal by squawking the descants as discreetly as I could), combined with much partying and frantic dalek-knitting. I also seemed to spend most of my free time travelling to London and back, which provided much opportunity for dalek-knitting and also confirmed my suspicions that it would be a more sensible place to live. I concealed my excessive drunkenness until I left the work Christmas party and stayed up until 4 a.m. after Livvy and Sarah's party talking about Deep Things with Livvy and giggling a lot, while Sarah babysat the drunken gatecrashers.

After a premature birthday celebration for Nik with his family, we set off up north, again via home because he'd left the Christmas cakes behind and there was no way we were eating them all on our own until June. Last year we had to go back and set the heating to come on for an hour at night so the pipes didn't burst, but one year we will be able to go from Surrey to Northumberland without a detour.

My parents, thanks to having been flooded back in September, are currently in a rented house which is Much Fun. It is enormous and old - it has a cellar, a cupboard where you could smoke things, many, many outbuildings and a moat (of sorts). Nik and I were having many fantasies about living somewhere similarly exciting. I made it into town to do something sociable and had brief drinks with Sarah and Thomas before a wonderful meal at the Grainger Rooms. The following day we had another wonderful meal at the pub in my village (which is now no longer in walking distance and we had to pile six of us into one car) - I find it deeply unsettling to think that this tiny village in the middle of nowhere is now a beacon of culinary excellence, but it is, so there. All you need is a pretentious arty cinema and there is no need to live in a town! It was astonishingly cheap as well - my dad and I can't decide if this is wonderful, as it brings good food to the masses and proves that it needn't be expensive, or foolish, as you could easily charge twice as much and you'll never make any money selling a fab 3-course meal for £15 a head...

Nik became the same age as me again, which is always reassuring, cooked a spectacular Swedish banquet (minus the traditional cabbage) on Christmas Eve, which impressed my parents greatly, and has apparently retracted everything he said about weddings being pointless and unnecessary. *grins*

On Christmas day, my dad, possibly feeling the need to compete with this wonderful, competent 'new man', cooked beef Wellington, which was excellent (though there was a lot more attention-seeking stress) and we are petitioning him to instate it as an annual tradition, finances permitting. He and Nik went shooting on Boxing Day, and came back with a pheasant, a proud fiance and a new cocktail. The 'Backworth Shandy', my friends, is a Northumbrian concoction, consisting of sloe gin and sparkling wine. It is positively lethal and utterly delicious. Some southern ponces apparently call it a 'Sloe Royale'.

Then we came back down south, where it was much colder, and drank more obscene quantities of bubbly with Nik's family and he proudly told everyone that we were engaged... AND, he shot a PHEASANT!!! *rolls eyes* Granny turned 80 and there was more fizz. I fear permanent damage to my stomach lining.

And then we got home and some thieving scumbags had broken into our house and left mud all over our carpets and stolen Nik's family jewellery, among other things, and I now feel somewhat deflated.