The boy sits on beds edge ferociously strumming his guitar, his eyes channelling something feral and intent when I tap his shoulder. But he is content. All he wants for Christmas, sorted. A good camera for shooting wild life , in the bag. Subscription to an X box site, not. But he is working on it. . A copy of the Beano Annual, yeah, granny Oonagh never fails him. . Presents for family, done. CDs all round from the bargain basement and first burnt onto his own I pod. So, OK, made to contribute some of his cash for the camera, and some serious lectures from the boss about the CDS, but, you know, Duck's Back. Water and God 's in his heaven.
The gorgeous girl whirls through the house on her way to choral performance, girl shopping, hanging in the Vault listening to music, eating talking dancing with her friends, dressed in dark teeshirt, black jeans encasing giraffe limbs and a mere hint of jacket against the winter, because everything is shiny and speeded up as the great day approaches and there is no time to waste on chill or rest..
My husband and I watch the Boss in a row of hopeful soulful teens, as they bounce and thrill through all the Christmas carols at her school concert. Her eyes shine, her beautiful face serene. She has wrapped and tagged every Christmas present in the house for us, written and posted all the Christmas cards, given and received cards from a multitude of girl friends. In the wardrobe her fine new outfit hangs for her (first) teenage dance tomorrow night, white lace, brief black skirt, silver pumps (and stout seventy denier black tights at my insistence.)
I wrap a frozen limb around my good husband's sturdy Cavan legs afterward, as we chat under the duvet about missing addresses for cards recipients , vegetables still to be got for Christmas dinner, whether we might get Port as well as Sherry for the great day, when oh when he can decently remove the flashing garish Santa clause the boy has proudly placed in our front window, and he tells me that he is this year truly happy, and will be so on Christmas Day, on Christmas Day.
The gorgeous girl whirls through the house on her way to choral performance, girl shopping, hanging in the Vault listening to music, eating talking dancing with her friends, dressed in dark teeshirt, black jeans encasing giraffe limbs and a mere hint of jacket against the winter, because everything is shiny and speeded up as the great day approaches and there is no time to waste on chill or rest..
My husband and I watch the Boss in a row of hopeful soulful teens, as they bounce and thrill through all the Christmas carols at her school concert. Her eyes shine, her beautiful face serene. She has wrapped and tagged every Christmas present in the house for us, written and posted all the Christmas cards, given and received cards from a multitude of girl friends. In the wardrobe her fine new outfit hangs for her (first) teenage dance tomorrow night, white lace, brief black skirt, silver pumps (and stout seventy denier black tights at my insistence.)
I wrap a frozen limb around my good husband's sturdy Cavan legs afterward, as we chat under the duvet about missing addresses for cards recipients , vegetables still to be got for Christmas dinner, whether we might get Port as well as Sherry for the great day, when oh when he can decently remove the flashing garish Santa clause the boy has proudly placed in our front window, and he tells me that he is this year truly happy, and will be so on Christmas Day, on Christmas Day.
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