Real men cook

Stormy day outside, with a gale pushing the tide up the narrows. There are whitecaps out in the straits and next time I go walking in the woods I expect to see trees down.

Damn it all I feel tired. I'm stone cold sober and have been for three days. Not a drop has touched my lips.

Sobriety? At Christmas? WTF is wrong with me? The answer is I'm driving again today as it is both Christmas day and Wife's birthday. We have to visit sister in law as we did last night, which is proving a little stressful.

I'd like to give up this Christmas lark as, being the cook of the household, I seem to end up at everybody else's beck and call. The mirror is doing me near favours either, I have bags under my eyes that were not designed by Louis Vitton. I seem to have aged twenty years in less than a week. Not a happy state of affairs.

Was I looking forward to this? Jesus H Christ I'm bloody exhausted. My sleep patterns are more disturbed than a psychopathic schizophrenic on amphetamines. I'd like to find out if the drugs were working, but nothing seems to help. I need to work solid for a few days with no interruptions to kick my system back into it's usual hyperactive groove.

At the moment I'm cooking Christmas lunch. Dessert is a complete experiment because youngest whined about pre prepared pudding. A sort of apple and batter slice with maple vanilla ice cream. Real men can cook, but I'd really like to have some privacy for a while. Just to work. Failing that, a bullet in the brain might be nice.