As the sherry and Babycham ebbs away from my tired arteries, I am running a little low on festive cheer. This year was the first to herald my dwindling Christmas sparkle, and I fear I may have grown up too much! Plus the previous week to Christmas had bestowed on my doorstop enough snow to make even a woolly mammoth think twice about trekking out. It was, to say the least, uninspiring. Impatient as I am, my major Christmas present had been warming on my back since early November; the coveted, Barbour inspired All Saints jacket. Of course, I had many a little treat under the tree, but as I watched friends and family open their crown jewels beneath the boughs, I couldn't help feel the pang of disappointment that comes with knowing your prize present is hanging in the hall way, smelling of damp wax and decorated with an array of dog paw prints and cat hair. Chic? Non. I have taken note, and will be a more patient, better behaved girl next year.
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