Let me preface this by affirming the fact that I am no grinch.
I knocked out a fireplace in Sonny Jim’s nursery when I was six months pregnant, mainly because I loved the thought of my child at Christmas having his own chimney for Santa to come down.
Any excuse to drink Prosecco and giggle and I’m there. And I love a cake, a balloon and bunting more than I probably should in my, ahem, mid thirties.
But when did Easter become such a production?!
As the daughter and sister-in-law of priests, I’m not talking about those celebrating their faith.