It’s Christmas Eve, and my husband and I are puttering around the apartment wrapping the few presents we bought for each other and enjoying glimpses of our Christmas tree and the faint sound of a holiday album. We pause intermittently to entertain the feline houseguest we’ve been hosting this week or to eat one of the disfigured—but delicious—cookies we baked yesterday.
Earlier, we went to an 11:00 AM matinee of The Nutcracker—something we’ve wanted to do for years. We made our way home, no set agenda except a family call later in the afternoon, a sausage-roll-and-shrimp-ring dinner, and laying out the stockings I somehow managed to finish in time. Outside, there’s snow on the ground and a real nip in the air. Inside, there’s a dusting of icing sugar on the counter (I should probably wipe up again, but the residual cookie mess never ends; this is why I usually leave it to Mr. Christie) and heat emanating from the radiator.
To sum it up, then, it’s chilly; I’m chill; and I’m sending you many warm wishes.
De Morbo Sacro: Life and/with Epilepsy 
All the best to you and Andrew.