Over the years, I've cooked Christmas Dinner in a lot of different kitchens, for a lot of different people.  It's a thing I enjoy a great deal - I love cooking for others in any circumstances, but doing it in an unfamiliar kitchen is an extra adventure.

No matter how many reassurances, though, it's hard to escape the feeling of being an invader.  Just because I've been invited to cook in somebody else's culinary domain, doesn't prevent my feeling that it's somehow an intrusion.  All very peculiar.

This year's gastronomic incursion was an entirely novel one, too - G & S have recently moved, to a brand spanking new property in Dursley.  Really nicely-built house, too - it has the feeling of quality manufacture about it.  The kitchen, of course, was virtually pristine - the stainless hob had not a mark on it, the oven smelt only of hot metal - even the microwave gleamed.  I did manage to apply a thin coating of grease to a number of spotless surfaces, but nothing that G wasn't able to remove...

It's been a generally very good festive break:  Saturday's retail therapy in excellent company, a pause for breath on Christmas Eve, then gluttony, drunkenness, charming gifts, heart-warming text messages and good company.  What more could one require?