not a creature was stirring

Lestrade was by to give me my present this morning. Guess what it was. Go on, guess. I'll wait.


IT WAS THE JUMPER SHERLOCK NICKED FROM HARRODS.

He took it back and paid for it, put his and Sherlock's name on the card. I don't know whether to laugh or tell him off. I'm sure it's teaching Sherlock quite the wrong lesson. Still, it's a very nice jumper. Blue cashmere, soft as anything. Harry stole it and wore it around the flat for a while this evening. (She says I keep it too cold, but she said that when we lived at home too. There's nothing wrong with having to wear jumpers indoors.)

It looks better on her than me, to tell the truth. It's much too fine for me. Poor thing. I'm going to abuse it horribly, and I'm starting off as I mean to go on by wearing over my pyjamas. I'm on the sofa for the night, you see. Herself has my bed, and the temperature does dip rather low at night, although nowhere near, as Harry put it, the temperature of "a cold dead spaceship."

T'was the night before Christmas
And out on the street
Some girls were getting down
To a hip, funky beat.

I didn't fetch another blanket,
Now aware of the lack
And knowing quite well the seventies rang
To get their adjectives back.

Sorry, that's all I've got, and I really do need to get the extra blanket and maybe some earplugs. Happy Christmas, everyone, and to all a good night.