The kitchen smells of rum. Either my old dear is over or Sorcha’s baking a Christmas cake
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I wake up to the sound of Michael Bublé singing downstairs. I obviously don’t mean that literally. At least I don’t think I do? Yeah, no, it’s the CD that I wowed Sorcha with – her big present – eight or nine Christmases ago.
I really am some catch when you think about it.