Tomorrow sees me and H10 heading off to Ireland for the Christmas.
The last time such a thing was attempted was five years ago, when after two days in Kerry the lad came down with a very bad stomach bug and had to be transported to the hospital in Tralee where he lay with a drip in his arm for four days.
And then, just to make it all a bit more cheery, the big Tsunami happened and the deaths of 300,000 people was the only thing to watch on TV.
And the only person to talk to was the chain-smoking 35-year-old grandmother from Limerick, with the intellectual level of a bowl of sprouts, whose asthmatic son lay in the next bed.
That was, without any competition, the worst Christmas ever. But I suspect that this one may be better. The whole Irish family are there, and the TV as usual will be brilliant, and the crisps and Baileys will flow like, um, some strange creamy sludge.
And I can immerse myself in books, and write as much as I want, and watch every trashy movie ever made, and stay up until 2 am with my unexpectedly night-owl parents, getting tipsy and talking about cats, EU grants and the neighbours.
And what do I want for Christmas? Actually just that will do fine, thanks. With just a bit more Baileys.
There are no Internets available in my parents’ house, so you’ll hear from me again in a week or so. And please, for me, have a very good one indeed.