Despite it being a festival of love and all, there's rarely a lot of time for sex over Christmas. In my house, with my mother raging and storming throughout the day when one thing's out of place, there's rarely any time for anything, never mind any sexually-related activities. Spending Christmas with my family, there wasn't anyone to have sex with anyway, but I usually spend a period of my alone-days dreaming about a certain someone. Usually the times when I have my right hand clasped around my... but that's neither here nor there (more's the pity).
My dad - master of dry wit, third only to Humphrey Lyttleton and my uncle by marriage (who never, ever stops) - ruminated upon the prospect of going ice-skating again (we went ice-skating on Christmas Eve, with the wiser of us sitting my the side drinking hot chocolate. I was weaving my way through slower skaters with ease and a dash of egocentricity, but I don't think anyone noticed. Good skaters are never noticed among the many casualties you get.), bringing with it the idea of people falling over.
"I don't fall over," I said. "I never have and I never will."
"You've just jinxed it," my mother said.
"True," I said. "I don't think [TD] would like it if I hurt myself, although she'd probably laugh a lot."
"What?" interjected Dad. "She likes you being horizontal?"
"And vertical," I responded. "And both, and 71, and..."
...and then I stopped, because I realised half the people sitting at the table were elderly relatives. Still, it made my dad laugh.
And at least I didn't say 69.