Christmas this year has been bloody amazing -- James got me that shirt I wanted and then a hell of a lot of grass. I could stuff Mrs Norris like three times over with how much he got me, it's almost disturbing and I really don't want to know how he got his hands on it but I wouldn't be surprised if he sold that pasty hide of his away to redheaded strangers with big knockers. What a way to go, eh? (Except he didn't, he's right here with me, shoving MY PUDDING into his face, hold on)
There. I win.
Jamesey got his own forest of weed, along with some Quidditch goggles and a new pair of catching gloves, and an American football helmet I managed to score off a bloke at the Bag of Nails (I figured he needed one; he loses enough brain cells during matches as it is; not that there were ever a lot there to begin with, ho ho ho) and I gave Mrs P some canvases and a new set of sable watercolour brushes and some gardenia soap, and Mr P that Flying Scotsman train set I was telling you about -- you know, the one I had to charm so it could run on magic instead of electricity? Went totally bonkers over it; mad little man, it's easy to see where Prongs gets it. Nutter.
So, are you still coming? You were supposed to owl me days ago; just because it's Chrimble Hols is no excuse for slacking the fuck off.