Dear Diary,
Christmas in the bosom of one's family is a great joy, but I fear when it includes Mrs Norris's bosom also, it is a bosom too far. I expect many a young lady would have been happy to wake up this morning with a small portion of the bosom that woman greedily possesses. It is a great shame and mystery to me why that awful pug that is permanently clasped to her breast, is not suffocated. She remained in her room yesterday and did not take part in the searching for, collection and lighting of the Yule log. She did not even accompany us to the Chapel to attend the Midnight service. Miss Lott was upon the Parson's organ and I surmise it was she who I overheard practising last week.
Mrs Norris ventured down this morning as we gathered around the tree to exchange gifts. Her nose was still quite swollen from the goose attack, and I do declare my gift of a lace handkerchief was a joyous and delightfully inappropriate gift under the circumstances. Not even her gift of hand knitted stockings, (and I trust it was not by her hand), could dampen the glow I felt inside. Mrs Crutchlow lay on a magnificent feast, although Mrs Norris did not partake of the goose. I write now upon my bed and I ache from mastication. My final thoughts of the day are of Mr Fairweather, wherever and whoever he is with. I hope he has had a Happy Christmas and can only hope that his final thoughts might be of me.
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