Ways to avoid the 25th

Oh dear. I can see December dates hurtling to the 25th. And I have a sneaky feeling that Shark, Tiger and Squirrel might have some sort of expectation here.

Well, Shark, Tiger and Squirrel, some truths. In the absence of cash, the remains of which I just blew on a desperate three nights in a field, there is no Christmas shopping. And in the absence of daddy Dig, who is enjoying himself now in Bahrain, there is no Christmas shopping. And in the absence of enthusiasm, because I am Grit, there is no Christmas shopping.

Therefore, I have made the following plans:

1. Wrap up some coat hangers. There is a huge bundle of coat hangers behind the curtain in the lobby. No-one knows they are there. They would make excellent presents. I could tell everyone that they are not coat hangers but part of a three-dimensional puzzle. In fact you could spend the whole day linking them all up. Now Shark, Tiger and Squirrel, off to your rooms with your new present and don't come out until I've gone to bed.
   
2. Become a Jehovah's Witness. I could do this on the 24th and then convert back to Awkward Git Grit on the 26th.
   
3. Lock myself in the cellar, by accident, like Sasha. Put a bucket in there and a box of chocolates first. Hide the ladder.
4. Run away. Live in the car for 24 hours. Return home on the 26th and say I have lost my memory. This worked for Ann and John, so it should work for me.
   
5. Lie. Pretend to Shark, Tiger and Squirrel that this year the government has said we will move straight from the 24th to the 26th and if anyone says it is the 25th then the police will come round and prosecute. This is dreadful, isn't it, but you wouldn't want your poor mother to go to prison, so better not fight this one.
6. Say it is all daddy's responsibility and he is not here so what can you expect.
   
7. Say that on the 25th it is traditional for mummies to lie down on the sofa and read a book about the Wars of the Roses which they have been trying to do for three months and it is traditional to put children outside and lock the doors. Don't you remember this from last year? Of course you do. Now wrap up warm and out you go to play.
   
8. Make the best of a bad job, cook baked potatoes for lunch, have an argument over who saw a robin first, run out of beer, go to the Co-op which is shut, complain about the neighbour's cat, tell Shark, Tiger and Squirrel to get on Education City because I am not paying for a website subscription again which no-one uses and, finally, lock myself in my bedroom to sulk for fifteen minutes in a wallowing hollow of self-pity and misery with a bar of Divine dark chocolate for company. There. Sounds perfect.