Deck us all with Boston Charlie

Well, this year we spent Christmas Day at the ER. derspatchel went down on some ice on Elm Street around noon and wrenched his ankle so badly I had to go into Davis and retrieve him from Starbucks, where he had managed to hobble; Harvard Vanguard was closed unless we could get to Kenmore or Braintree (no), so we headed to our old friend the Mount Auburn ER. Verdict, several hours later: a fracture in the tibia that runs into the joint (things you do not want to hear both the X-ray tech and the covering doctor say: "I've never seen anything like that before!"); Rob has been splinted and sent home on crutches with instructions to come back and see the surgeon on Friday; eggnog has been postponed until Boxing Day and I failed to notify everyone in time, but we are opening presents with my parents in Lexington, God damn it, because it is Christmas nonetheless.

I got my husband the new DVD of Jack Benny's legendary flop The Horn Blows at Midnight (1945). My husband got me two new books of Larry Marder's Beanworld. My parents got us a lot of kitchen implements and a gorgeous artist's proof that looks like a cross between an original poster for Equus and a line drawing by Cocteau. (The company I work for got me a combination calendar and calculator. I've never received a present from a corporate entity before. It is exactly as personal as I would have expected.) We're eating spanakopita and clementines. Rob will be eating some painkillers as soon as we can find a twenty-four-hour pharmacy.

And for the new year, we'd really like no more ER visits, please. That is our wish for a Twelfth Night present. Tumult and revelry, bring it on. I got nothing to say to hospitals.