Bells will be ringing

David was never really keen on going to his work Christmas do. I got an inkling of this negativity when I asked him last week what I should wear "Do I go in Old Faithful so they don't think you're flashing the cash and buying me new outfits in these troubled times or do I wear something new just to prove you're not worried about this credit crunch malarky?" He muttered something and retreated to the living room with the paper.

This morning, before he left for work, he announced that he "really didn't fancy" going tonight. "It's bad enough that I have to spend five days a week sharing their breathing space, I really don't want to spend my own time with them as well." I must admit I was quite relieved, I hadn't decided what to wear and memories of last year were still looming large in my mind. If I want to be manhandled inefficiently under the mistletoe by Neanderthals I can pop into the Transport Department at work.

So. We're not going. Or, we haven't gone, it being half past seven and the table was booked for seven. The sense of liberation is massive. David is as giddy as a kipper and, when I asked what takeaway he fancied for dinner, Indian or Chinese he giggled "Both!" and chased me round the kitchen. Charlie - redundant as baby sitter but staying for dinner - rescued the menus from me as I ran round her for the third time and took over the decision for us.

All three of us are getting stuck into the merlot and are planning a night of soaps until nine and then a lovely horror movie. Not necessarily festive but sheer bliss!