Ghost of Christmas past.

Being a parent still feels odd, despite more practice than I'd care to admit.

After a day of entertaining, shepherding and peacekeeping with the family, the traditional family meal with a close friend/honourary family member, the kids are in bed and the first beer is just poured.

Gloriously, I was given many books today, so that's me happy for a while. I have far too many books, but do re-read them from time to time, so can therefore justify keeping them hostage.

Waiting for girl to change into her pjs, I glanced to the shelf and saw this book. An instant flashback to being eight. At that stage I knew the secret, but kept up the pretence of believing for fear of a reduced haul. The one Christmas ritual was the yearly Beano annual, always recognisable by it's shape and size, always under the tree, always welcome. And of course, always unwrapped in semi darkness by the light of the tree, and littered with tinsel fragments plucked at night by a restless cat. It is, as I said once before, the details that count. After taking this, I then noticed the photography themed cover too.

I am eight.

I have reading to do.

This is Christmas.

Enjoy yourselves.