Throw in George the Dog and you've got a fairly long waiting list for the bathroom each morning - though I should point out we do make George go outside.
Anyway. I'm sure you get the picture. Obviously feeding the family et al requires some planning ahead in terms of commandeering shopping trolleys, letting Countdown know we are feeding an army and then forming a human chain to unload it from the trucks into the fridge(s).
But once done and prepared by Mrs P and her band of willing women (I assume they are willing; me and the boys have never actually asked) we are met with a feast fit for kings (and queens) and this year was no different.
Except it was just me and Mrs P.
The kids were doing duty time with the in-laws or overseas. The occasional other relatives had arranged other plans.
The strays had followed the stars and found a stable somewhere.
Even George the Dog considered a stay at the kennels (the one with the spa pool and Sky TV - it must have those treats, it costs enough) before deciding to stay home.
Unfortunately Mrs P appears not to have heard the news of reduced attendance over the din of the food processor (the birthplace incidentally of the finest cheesecake ever) and we have, shall we say, a rather full pantry.
This in turn leads to a rather full, and somewhat impressive, table of Christmas lunch fare.
My beloved takes it all in her stride. We shall, she says, have leftovers that evening. It'll save her cooking again.
I'm not so sure. There's a mountain of edibles here. I'm thinking we may be having leftovers from Christmas Day to January 4. And even then I'll be able to start back at work with a full lunchbox.
But ever ready to please Mrs P and pay homage to her culinary craft I don my new shorts and get stuck in. I mean it would be rude not to, wouldn't it.
To say the elasticated waistband has been well and truly (and increasingly) tested over the last few days would be an understatement.
And the careful stitching of China's finest, er, stitchers (?) in the rear has held under increasing breaking strain. Obviously I had done my sums before sitting down to eat.
Volume times stretchy elastic equals circumference. Spot on. Just.
But as far as the new T-shirt I got with my shorts is concerned I'm not so sure. Might have to go back to the calculator and redo the math.
I'm sure when I tried it on on Christmas morning it fitted just right. Now it's like a crop top. Maybe the material has shrunk or something.
It's probably come from a poor batch like that steel in some of our motorway bridges.
- Kevin Page is a teller of tall tales with a firm belief too much serious news gives you frown lines. Feel free to share your stories to kevin.page@nzme.co.nz
