DO NOT touch the Baby Jesus.

I love my mother, no, really i do.

But she is completely mental.

I probably don't help this though... i *might* do some things specifically to wind her up. Like turning the picture in the hallway upside down everytime i walk past it and writing rude words on the oven door and seeing how long it takes her to notice.

This time of year, it's extra brilliant. My partner in crime (my aunt) and i have several christmassy games we like to play.

Every Christmas day, my mother lays the table for 12 people, making sure that the crackers go - gold, silver, gold, silver, gold and so on. Every time she goes into the kitchen, somebody has to run into the dining room and switch a few of them around. The first 3 or 4 times she is confused, then she gets angry.

Another Christmas dinner game played by my aunt, my little cousin and i, is to get a word, or phrase into the conversation that perhaps should be there - without other people noticing.
Last year, i seem to remember it was "tramp's knob". and i won. it went a bit like this:

grandad: "Mmm, these little sausages are nice, what are they called?"

me: "tramp's knobs?"

grandad: "what?"

*old people look confused*

me: "oh, um... chipolatas?"

grandad: "oh yes, that's right"

*aunt and cousin sit with MOUTHS HANGING OPEN, in surprise and admiration*

BUT. The best thing at Christmas is my mother's absolute favourite thing ever. The Knitivity (yes. the KNITivity)

So often being shouted in my house:

"STEPHANIE, DID YOU KNOCK THE DONKEY OVER?"

or,

"STEPHANIE, WHY ARE THE WISE MEN DOING HANDSTANDS?!"

or (my favourite)

"STEPHANIE, WHERE IS THE BABY JESUS?!!"

ahahahahaha. hahaa. ha.

ha.