Six, Seven, Eight, Nine

We’re still dating.

For number SIX, Tim made an incredibly snazzy naan bread pizza (ever done this? It’s only the best homemade pizza ever. The way to my heart is still a Domino’s Texas Barbecue, but this is a close (and much cheaper) second). Then he went out and fetched two McDonald’s Festive Pies.

Whoever thought of putting custard inside deep-fried pastry is a beautiful, beautiful [probably obese] genius.

For number SEVEN, we sang in the annual Christmas Carol Concert together, while Tim’s mum looked after Henry. This may not seem like date-worthy material. It’s not like the altos and the tenors get to sit together and hold hands on the back row (though I did get to stare at him in a suit and tie all evening, which is an opportunity I never pass up). But Christmas doesn’t start, for me, until we’ve sung O Holy Night together at the tops of our voices. It just fills me up. And I come away feeling like I want to be a lovely person to everybody, especially Timothy, which is surely what this dating endeavour is for, anyway.

For number EIGHT, we had a roast for dinner – a special treat, since it’s not usually worth making one for only two people – and watched the Christmas devotional together. MoTab sing the heck out of The First Noel, don’t they? It was delicious.

For number NINE, we had a bizarre late-night baking session to the accompaniment of Casino Royale. This proved mainly that a) we shouldn’t bake late at night, because the resulting lemon bars were a car crash of disastrous confectionery; and b) Casino Royale, while an excellent showcase for Daniel Craig’s craggy face and craggier punches, is not ideal dating fare. She betrays him and dies at the end. It doesn’t make you go all fuzzy.

Serious business.

Taking over the zesting once I'd accidentally zested my finger.

Burrito baby, resigned to his fate.

Even disasters can be remedied with enough icing sugar.

But leftover lemon bars at 1am just might.

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