Do they know it's Christmas time at all?

'Twas the morning of Christmas day, 9 O'Clock to be precise. Not a peep can be heard from the Turner household. Band Aid were right when they asked, 'Do they know it's Christmas time at all?' I poke my slightly disillusioned head above and out of my quilt. He's been! Santa has been!

Traditionally I have always been the first of the Turner family to rise on Christmas morning, opting as a child to camp out on my sister's bedroom floor in order to ensure I had a partner in crime to wake up my parents with come 7 O'Clock (one year by dancing to 5,6,7,8 on their bed, Steps being the CD Santa considered appropriate that year, I'm sure 'he' regretted that later). 2012 was no different although thanks to the two Pinot Grigios consumed earlier that morning, I'd awoken later than usual without any excitable breaks in sleep but with a slightly sore head (lightweight I know) and with less inclination to bust out the boot scootin baby. 'I guess I really am growing up', I thought to myself. I no longer felt the need to hover outside my parents door, willing myself to go in and see if it was time to open presents. You see that was always my job. Despite deploying a partner in crime in the form of my older sister, it always seemed to be me carrying out the crime itself! Me the one having to barge in on my parents at half 6 to wake them up. Me the one rummaging under beds or on top of wardrobes for not very well disguised presents whilst she kept watch. There's always a dodgy dance that comes with such activities too. There's the overactive head bop when searching for presents and the tentative two-step when debating the right time to wake the parents, hovering back and forth over that one squeaky floorboard trying not to make a sound. Then once I'd built up enough courage to bravely enter, I'd be told that it's too early and I'll have to do it all again in half an hour!

Years may pass but the surge of butterflys I get when seeing the Christmas tree surrounded by sparkly wrapping paper, bows and gift bags remain. Don't get me wrong, the thought of receiving presents in the shape of cosy jumpers, shiny jewellery and tickets to the NTA Awards (erm, hello Derms O'Leary), is enough to rival Buddy the Elf, the excitement of giving gifts to others you'd agonised long and tirelessly over is what I really look forward to. God I really am growing up! Saying that however, me and my soon to be 26 year old sister, still receive stockings from Father Christmas. As usual Santa was very generous to me this year, gifts including a Snowman Pandora charm, lots of Topshop favourites and Boo the Cutest Dog in the World (if only he was real). Some less so desirable presents included 'plop' trumps which consist of, well you can guess what it consisted of, and a Tom Daley calendar, whom whilst adorable in a 'ahh look at you in your little speedos' kind of way, I cannot have pinned half-naked on my wall all year long. Sorry Mum but bloggers, look out for a Tom Daley Calendar giveaway coming soon to Charlotte's Web!!

Now after pigging out and stuffing my face all day yesterday, I have to go and polish off the mountain of profiteroles left festering in the fridge. They go off tomorrow, it'd be rude not to!

Hope you all had lovely Chrimbo festivities!

P.S Check out one of the right royal guests who made a brief appearance at dinner, well atleast when we played 'Who am I?' anyway.

Las Iguanas - "Would you like eyes with those prawns?"

"Here are your prawns Miss" said the Waiter who I later discovered was called Felix.

Felix was from Scotland. I only knew this because earlier that day I'd watched a repeat of blubbering Andy Murray's speech (if you can call it that) at this year's Wimbledon final and of course, me being me believed it necessary to ask, "Are you from Scotland cause you sound just like Andy Murray?" thinking it would be a fantastic conversation starter. Although the comment fulfilled its purpose, the content of said conversation became inevitably awkward.

"Yeah I live on the border, you know the border between Scotland and England?"

Alright Felix, I know I'm blonde but really, please enlighten me as to which other border Scotland shares? Understandably the conversation came to abrupt end with Felix scuttering away most likely confident in the fact that whilst he'd had to make small talk with a bunch of cocktail-tipsy 22 year olds, he'd just successfully managed to pocket himself a nifty little tip. Little did he know that he was serving 4 students who would later struggle to pull 80p together.

And then there they were.

They were facing me.

I was facing them.

Our eyes met.

Four of the biggest prawns one will ever see. (An exaggeration...probably). They're eyes still firmly in place. The eyes that once looked lovingly into those of their Mother's. The eyes that gazed hopefully towards the misty ocean unknown. The eyes that stared frightfully into those of the fisherman's net.

Those eyes were now looking deep into mine and it wasn't a welcomed sight. If pupils could talk, these most certainly did.

Considering my love for food that are, at best, extras from the Little Mermaid, began no longer than a year ago, my experience of consuming fodder with facial features were little to well...none. You see I don't 'do' things with eyes. Or heads. Or anything that looks like it could jump right up off of my plate and saunter away with an attitude that better belongs on a Marc Jabob's catwalk. (FYI I also don't 'do' baked beans, onions, pickles, olives, basically anything in a questionable looking sauce).

It was my first experience at Las Iguanas, a Latin American restaurant and I'd been enjoying my first of two Happy Hour specials 'Iguana-Wana's', chosen simply because of their name. After about an hour of attempting to determine the difference between burritos, enchiladas and quesadillas and Felix's fourth attempt at which to take our order, I'd decided to opt for the Tapas option, Albondigas (minty lamb meatballs), Chunky Fungi Champinones (mushrooms) and of course Gambas (very large prawns), opting also not to attempt to the read the dishes given names which prompted our dear little Felix to comment upon my non-existent attempt to read in Spanish.

Soon enough however, our food arrived and wishing not to cause a scene that would rival Helen Flanagan on I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here, I held my breath and began tackling the fishy fodder. And do you know what? I liked it. I really really liked it. Once I'd pushed aside my fear of prawns with eyes (literally to the opposite end of the plate), the whole tapas experience was truly delicious. The food, whilst somewhat mouth-wavingly spicy, was full of flavour, I liked that I could fuse all my favourite dishes into one. I didn't know which plate to jump to next!

My visit to Las Iguanas will be the first of many although admittedly, I may think twice about ordering the Gambas in the future. Or maybe I'll just make a request as to how I'd like my prawns.

"Without their shell, limbs or eyes that scream 'I died tragically in an under-water warfare! Thanks Felix.'