Happy Yule indeed. I'm more flagged than I've been in months and Sirius keeps stumbling around boxes and falling all over the wrapping paper - where it all came from I haven't the faintest idea, nor how anyone can manage to trip over paper, though my money would have been on him if anyone - in his (admittedly impressive) attempts to waltz with the couch. Something. The downside of this is I really can't tell if he's being drunken, merry, or just Sirius, and I think I've lost all feeling in my arms now, but that's quite all right because if I can't feel my arms then I can't drink any more and if I can't drink any more then the chances that I will literally slosh my way off of the sofa and onto the extraordinarily dusty carpet are relatively slim. Of course if the flailing ball of absurdity that I deemed in a lapse of my usually impeccable judgement to be a suitable and even, at times, exemplary lover would stumble his way over here and coax some sort of sensation back into my oh-so-pliable limbs, my position or lack thereof on the Chesterfield is really the least of our concerns.
Ho, ho, ho.
Merlin, I'm drunk.