You know how it is when you're frantically packing for the train home at Christmas. Have I got the presents, enough books, tranquilisers and nicotine patches? Is there anything I've forgotten?
It turns out I'd forgotten I'd ordered an estate agent off Gaydar. And very welcome he was too. There's some puns here about "there are some presents you can open before the 25th", and "unwrapping underneath the tree", but you know what? I can't be bothered.
Lovely Mark [actually, cannot remember his name, but he looked like a Mark] was a great distraction, and quite took my mind off the train journey. My hatred of families travelling with young children in the quiet carriage has reached whole new heights of middle-aged outrage.
I'd just like to thank the Earth Mother, with the self-cut hair, stinking child, and flea-raddled dog for making the journey so memorable. For god's sake lady, soap is organic, surely.