This is an example of the way that Mr X makes everything difficult. A simple thing like a divorce, you might think, could be run in a civilised way, with everyone making small-talk over the mince pies at Christmas. Nope. We have to have total apartheid of all relatives and friends, no-one is allowed to speak to the enemy (me) and there must be no mention of my name or doings to darken the festive spirit. Huh. Well, as if all that isn't bah-humbug enough, now Mr X has instituted a further layer of division between us. While the treasures' stockings are filled, at my house, by lovely Father Christmas (when the darling is not too busy cancelling my parking tickets at Southwark Council, see previous blog), at Mr X's house, presents are brought by the Little Mouse.
