|Santa's little helper|
“Hi Dad! I'm just putting my shoes on.” Is that voice really mine? I wonder what it sounds like crackling out of the outside speaker.
“Do you need any help?” Dad offers.
“No, I'll manage thanks.”
This other me struggles into her coat and completes the final checks. She scoops the bags uneasily up and fumbling with keys pulls the front door to and locks it. She staggers under her load from the third floor to the ground. With everything piled into the car, myself included, the short drive home commences.The family is gathered ceremoniously in the lounge. Monty, or Taz as he's known when he's excited, is the first to open his presents. My parents and I watching on as he rips the wrapping off with his teeth. The uncovered toy lets out a volley of squeaks, but he's mesmerised by the crumpled up ball of paper. As we begin to open our gifts, he sniffs and paws at the three of us as if to say, “Give me that paper!” Bored of this, he tries another diversion: “Mum, Dad, look at me! Look at me! Don't I look cute with my boot?!” Cantering up and down the carpet, shaking the boot, its laces trailing. When this fails to work, he positions himself in front of Dad and grumbles, “Dad, play football with me!” The tip of his nose lightly kissing a paper ball, backside up in the air and tail wagging. He gives me a smirk as if to say, “Look how I do downward dog like you, except I'm better!”