A Tuesday with a bit of a lie-in, granted, but a gusty Tuesday nevertheless and nothing at all like the frenzy of Christmas Eves gone by.
I didn't take sleep last night, my head full of worry and angry thoughts, anger at those factors that keep forcing my parents to prevail, and prevail, and come up with ways to get by when they shouldn't have concerns.
The latest? A car accident that they were lucky to walk away from between Birdhill and Limerick, the broken back and front of some green motor - a write-off - evidence of some swerved carnage.
I've had consolation from others who say that a car can be replaced, but lives can't, and they were so lucky.
And I'm relieved.
But I can't help but shake an angry fuck off fist at the two steps forward, eight steps back nature of their 2013. And their 2012. And before that again.
Theirs is the story of others, of a country where you can steal billions and live happily ever after, but borrow a few quid at the wrong time and...
Look. Enough. I'm just sad is all.
I won't see them this Christmas for the first time in my life, and while I know that it's a world made small by technology and there will be happiness at both ends of our divide, there will be moments when I'm on my own and it's just a great big ball of strange.
I will, at least, be in a house where I'm also home, with my girl and her folks, and where self consciousness has no place and there is love. And tradition. Bonds that only get stricter. And a Christmas wedding to follow that may just contain all the craic in the world.
The wreckage is still there, outside in my parents' front garden, and I hope that when I say, "next year will be their year" that they can finally get free from worry.