Xmas. Ex year.
Funny how mince pies feel all grey and greasy on the tongue
once we're into New Year.
It's been very nice and healing for the brain
not to have to rise like an electrified Frankensteinian creation, at 7.00 am
every morning. Bolt upright in bed. Bolts in my head. Fizzing.
Actually feel quite human and capable of following a train of thought
Christmas has its uses. It allows you to slow down and reflect
and as you soak in an overfilled bath of lukewarm sentimentality
you can ponder what's really important. This is universal. Whether
you are having an estranged or homeless Christmas or trying to
dodge bullets - your mind will at some point
engage with Christmas.
Even if it's not your religion of choice.
After 47 years I can choose which traditions
I feel like observing. Not that many actually.
The overiding aim is to stop and think
We had Elvis, turkey and candles and then the oven broke.
Stir fried stuffing is unusual.
The children were lucky enough to have presents.
I read' The DaVinci code' - and so what if Jesus did have kids.
I read a more interesting book, 'The Paris Review '- interviews
with authors. The giver of this gift said they hoped it would prod
me into action - or words to that effect.
I went to see 'The Magic Flute' at the Young Vic and I'm glad I did.
(I went with two special people.)
I watched Mary Poppins - and still wish the dad didn't end up returning
to his old job at the bank.
I wore my new scarf, which is good because Snow Is On It's Way.
( James Thurber-ish capitals.)
It's this blog's first birthday.