Christmas is going and the turkey’s getting thin, doesn’t have quite the same ring about it, as ‘the goose is getting fat’, and we don’t have halfpennies or ha’pennies as they used to call them. All that changed before I was born, we did have half pence, which were tiny little things, that many people couldn’t be bothered to collect in change. They were got rid of years ago. So not only species become extinct through man, even his currency does too.

I know when I was a student, a few years ago, money seemed to go further than it does today. I didn’t have anything like as much as I do now, but I seemed happy enough. Now I suppose I have the worries of a child and three adults to burden me. Thank goodness they all earn or have independent means, or I would have to go out and slog for my living.

I actually got to see the dormouse video, it’s brilliant, especially the presenter, she’s sexy and authoritative–and I curled up in embarrassment watching myself on film. I was okay, but did I have to wave my hands about so much and did my voice have to rise slightly in pitch at the end of a sentence? I sounded like an educated Sheila, ‘Oh geez Baz, that would make me like Germaine Greer–aarghhh! A fate worse than sheep shearing.’ Otherwise it was okay, I suppose. Des’ filming was astonishing, and the sound track added largely afterwards, fitted in really well, birdsong and other natural noises, you know cows farting and sheep coughing, plus a motorway and various farming activities.

I sent Alan an email for him to finish it and send it to Erin. I also spoke to Henry and asked for his thoughts, he was very pleased with it, so were Natural England. We knew the Beeb were interested, and that usually means through them, we can sell to Canada and Australia. Whether I feel up to doing a similar thing with harvest mice, I have no idea.

It was my turn to check on the cages in the uni, I took trouble with me and also returned Spike to her peaceful existence amongst the academics and their ivory towers. What the hell was I doing there? Trying to keep them grounded, I suppose, plus earn a crust and protect the environment and one or two species.

I can’t save the world, man is intent on destroying it for profit or proliferation. I know the Pope stands for breeding lots of catholics, especially amongst poor people who can’t afford to raise and educate them. He’s also as repressive as the Taliban regarding the role of women, and especially about the role of womens’ sexuality. Not content with this, he bashes his favourite chestnut of gays, and adds me to them. That really pissed me off, silly old bugger, I sent a letter by email to the Guardian, but the only thing they published was from gay organisations or their own columnists. Writing to them seems to be as much a waste of space as the people I’m trying to opine about. No one wants to listen to me, unless of course I want to talk about changing sex, and allow them to take pictures. Bah, humbugs–the lot of them.

Mima actually kept relatively quiet around the hibernating dormice. I let her feed a Brazil nut to Spike, which had her giggling but also enjoying herself. There can’t be many three year olds who’ve handled dormice.

I took her round the park in the centre of Portsmouth and we stopped for a milkshake, which we shared, she couldn’t drink it all. Then a quick wee stop, and off we went home to organise lunch for Tom, Stella, Simon and us.

I stripped the remaining meat off the carcass of the turkey and boiled the bones for half an hour to make stock, thence I added vegetables and lentils, plus a few other bits and pieces and we had a passable soup. Mima seemed to enjoy it, so I froze the rest for the future, on days when I can’t think of what to give her. On the assumption I still have her, who knows?

Simon looked after in the afternoon, which usually meant post-prandial snoozes all round. Stella and I did the clean up and Tom walked the dog. Meems seemed to enjoy sleeping with Simon, mind you so do I, but that’s a different story.

Traditionally, the Christmas decorations are taken down on twelfth night, which is also the Feast of the Epiphany. I know this, I used to sing in a church choir, and we did solos during that carol service, Epiphany, that is. I don’t always do tradition, and I wanted the decorations down–like now. So I started to take them down.

Stella did the cards, which were going into the recycling box, and I was doing the paper chains and things. With the high ceilings, I needed someone to stand on the bottom of the ladder, Simon’s usual job. Given Simon was asleep with Mima, and nobody else was available, I should have waited, but you know me, Little Miss Hurry.

I got half of them down, no problem, it was the second half that was the cause of my flight. Yes, I flew, admittedly somewhat after the fashion of a stone, pulling paper chains and step-ladders with me. At thirty two feet per second squared, it doesn’t take very long, so my levitation was rather ephemeral.

I must have squealed as I went, because Simon woke and saw me momentarily, sitting on top of the Christmas tree, before my superior mass caused the top of the tree to snap off with a loud crack, and an even louder shriek from me.

Fortunately, the tree broke my fall. I broke the tree. Simon nearly choked laughing and it took him a few minutes before he could ‘rescue’ me. Mima was running around squealing, she thought it was hilarious. I just wondered how I’d got pine needles in some very personal places.

Finally, Simon got me out of the mess just as Tom came back. He laughed as well, I was nursing a few bruises and shedding pine needles like it was evergreen autumn. Stella dashed out and put the kettle on, thank goodness someone was thinking.

I mean, I would have rescued myself, except I was sort of wedged in between two bookcases, with a branch of Norway spruce attempting to insert itself into a place, where the sun rarely shines. I was well and truly jammed, and Simon had to tug hard to get me out.

Once they’d stopped laughing, he and Tom, took the remains of the tree out into the garden. I was glad to see it gone, and sat and drank my tea in the kitchen. After that, I went upstairs where Simon applied antiseptic to my wounds–well, I had two scratches, and some arnica to my bruises. I changed and shook yet more pine needles out of my clothes. Next year, we’ll have one of those little fibre optic ones and no paper chains.

All the decorations went into a couple of boxes and they went up into the attic. Never having been in that one before, and being of a nosy disposition, I carried the second box up the steps into the freezing cold chamber. It was floored, with ancient boards, and the ceilings had been plastered. It had electric lights and loads of boxes and chests and things, just like a childrens’ film. We labelled the boxes and sealed them with sticky tape. We might just find them next year, if I’d changed my mind about trees and decorations. My stiffening gluteals tended to indicate, I wouldn’t for a few days at any rate.

I served a stew for supper, which went down reasonably well, Tom muttered about curry, so I reminded him he’d had one yesterday. Problem with old people–short term memory loss, now where was I?

After this I limped up to the bathroom and soaked in a hot bath for about half an hour, then nosy-parker came to find me, took all her clothes off and jumped in as well. She had great fun sitting on my lap, trying to sink my rubber duck. We made a boat out of the soap dish, although it did sink on its maiden voyage.

Simon, who’d put her up to it, came in about twenty minutes later and retrieved her from the bath, scooping her up into a large pink towel. When, I went to get out of the bath, I’d seized up and Simon had to haul me out and help to dry me. I limped into bed after drying my hair, Mima of course found it all highly amusing, so did Simon. “I’m going to tell everyone that you fell off your broomstick.”

“You’ll be the only talking frog in these parts if you do,” I replied trying to make like a witch, “and as for you Missy, if you don’t stop giggling, I’ll turn you into a nice child.”

“Yeah, you’d better believe it,” said Simon, “she can turn a car into a drive.”

Mima looked spellbound, her eyes wide, “Is Mummy, a witch?”

“Yeah, but a good one, she only turns princes and aristocrats into frogs, oh and me into a pauper.”

I glared at him, “Well you’ll be a poor frog, then won’t you?”