So, the christmas presents are all in Scotland, Plan A being that we hop on the Bristol Inverness Easyjet flight tomorrow afternoon with just our toothbrushes and PJ's. But then my Stepmother in law rang to warn us that the airport had been closed, has re-opened but there's a dump alert in place for more snow. Rather than collapse in a heap, or dash out and fill the fridge with festive nosh, I hatched Plan B. Fool.
Plan B. We must ring Inverness airport in the morning. If it is closed, then I must proceed immediately to the shops and fill the fridge. But now it has started to snow here, rather heavily.
Plan C. Christmas Eve. The family will link arms and together we will wander down the steep hill to the nearest town and play Hunt The Last Turkey in the butcher's shop. We will load our haul onto the toboggan and drag it all back up.
Thing's could be a great deal worse. Which is, no doubt where the Evil Bastard Plan D stops scratching at the window and throws a rock through it. I will now go and check the central heating oil level and see how my on line leccy bill paying scheme has got on in my absence. This is more like it. I knew that eerie calm couldn't last forever.