Christmas has descended, like a flurry of fake snow.
It has taken me several days to wind down from CIPA mode: my
family had to speak to me quite firmly about the terms of reference I had drawn
up for the Christmas Festivities Sub-Committee, not to mention the project
plans for the Christmas dinner. But they
have persuaded me that Christmas does not warrant the same degree of control
as, say, a meeting of the Internal Governance Committee. Also, they say, we do not need to correct the
typos in the relatives’ round-robin Christmas letters; indeed there is no clear
mechanism for doing so. I am somewhat
disappointed on both counts. I had
wanted to send the letters back saying Your kids may have earned 67 Brownie
badges and played violin at the Royal Albert Hall and your husband may be CEO
of Swanky Hotels Inc and you may be Chairman of three committees with a social
calendar like the Duchess of Cambridge and I don’t know how you ever find time
for those gorgeous new pedigree puppies and the 2-acre garden full of chickens
and Thai basil not to mention the good-looking gardener who is also no doubt
time-consuming, but you still cannot use apostrophes
properly I see.
Still, at least the emails have stopped. Apart from the IPKat, of course, which like
other cats is (a) nocturnal and (b) still wrapping itself around your legs even
on bank holidays. Also an ex-client of
mine, who long ago decided that my invoices were for making paper planes out
of, for some reason awakes on Christmas morning, turns to his LinkedIn® app and
endorses me for patent litigation. Which
I do not do. But apparently he thinks I
do. And this is ever so slightly
worrying because I am wondering what I put in my last invoice.
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