It's Christmas morning. We've just torn the presents open and put the turkey in the oven, and have all run off to enjoy our new stuff - my sister is lazing around her room soaking in the fresh sound of her new cd, my dad's flicking through the fascinating, battered old Irish Digest that my sis picked up for him in a second-hand shop (it has the original short story on which The Quiet Man was based!), and I'm going to have a loooong shower with all the smelly new fancy schmancy seaweed-based stuff I got!
I know I was reluctant to get into the Christmas spirit this year, but I can't help feelin' it today. The table's laid with the good cloth and a cracker poised at the head of each placemat, ready to be snapped; the cat is nestled in a bed of crumpled wrapping paper; I've had about 20 cups of tea in as many minutes; the living room smells of tree and last night's fire and chocolate and the new perfume my mum got me that I HAD to test right away; my dad has filled the digital camera with photos of bleary-eyed, oversized kids in our pjamas opening our gifts; everyone's in good humour despite getting little sleep and being woken rudely by my cruel, excited sister setting off that damn dancing/singing turkey mum bought two years ago.
We've grown up, but we're still kids on Christmas morning - up early to dive under the tree, rip open our presents and squeal with delight. It's nice. It's wonderful, actually. It's Christmas. :)
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