I moved to the country at Easter and have been planning Christmas ever since. Our house is groaning with home-cooked food, beautifully wrapped presents and table decorations that I’ve made with a hot glue gun. I love hot glue and want to glue everything to anything — apples, ribbons, small animals; nothing is safe. I may have to start sniffing the stuff, such is my excitement at discovering how uncannily similar to Martha Stewart I have become since becoming a Country Mouse. My half-Indian husband only pretends to get it; I know he’d much rather eat lobster on a beach than one of the 200 mince pies that are nestling between layers of greaseproof paper in my freezer. He’s awfully loyal, though, and I pretend I don’t notice that he sneaks a great dollop of chilli sauce on to everything I lovingly cook for him.
I’m a bit nervous that no one is going to give me what I want for Christmas.
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