On January

Hello Darkness, my old friend.

I'm not sure how much of this bad mood is due to my impending return to work tomorrow morning. I'd be tempted to lay all of the blame at my office door, but I know better. It's the new year, that's what's making me miserable.

I've never been one to make resolutions - or even plans. I'm not much of an optimist and I don't see the point in struggling to look to the future when I've perfected living in the past. Typically, once the clock strikes midnight on 31st December, I'm struck with the realisation that a new, uncharted set of 365 days lays before me. A hazy, unknown expanse full of hidden treasure and wicked monsters, wild seas and cozy fireplaces. I'm very much of the mindset that planning ahead is difficult in any sense but the most abstract - as I'm completely unsure of the treasure-to-monster ratio and so can't predict which opportunities will present themselves, which obstacles will block my path. I do, however, allow myself a moment after the fireworks, kisses and mumbling of Auld Lang Syne to hope for the best, to consider what it is I'd like to happen.

At the New Year's Eve parties I attend, it's almost unheard of that the night should pass without incident. There is usually a fight, an argument or flood of tears from somebody to distract me from my flight of fancy and reacquaint me with reality. [It's been two or three years since I was at the centre of one of these incidents - that's progress for you. There was a time that I was odds-on favourite to be the cause of any aggravation.]

And really, that's what January is, isn't it? A painful and undignified crash back into real life. A sad and nervous return to the big city, which looks so much greyer and unattractive without its fairy lights and festive decorations. A bleak midwinter to wade through, with little merriment or joy (due to length of time between pay days and the notorious VAT hike). Oh my God, it's grim - and made worse by the fact that it sits stubbornly straight after one of the most exciting, friendly months of the year. It's such a comedown - a 31 day hangover.

January; have you taken note of May's daffodils, July's long days, October's falling leaves and December's festivity? Do you see what other months provide to keep us entertained? Can you not even try to offer us something to cheer us up? There are no parties because there's no money, there are no flowers because there's no sun. If I had to sum you up in three words, they would be drizzle, debt and despair. And no, I don't think despair is going too far. For once, this year, I would like to have a fun January. Can you please arrange this for me?

I'll let you know how it goes. I'm not holding out much hope.

PS Sorry if anyone reading this celebrates their birthday in January. If this is the case, then you are a rare and sought-after example of January making an effort to improve its reputation.

On Christmas Past, Present and Yet To Come

The fact that I have never read any of Charles Dickens' work has always been a source of shame for me. I've often felt that, as a British person with an appreciation of classic literature, it was nothing less than my civic duty to at least get to grips with his most famous works, if not immerse myself in his entire bibliography. And how better to start than with A Christmas Carol, at the time when the country is at its peak of festive merriment? So that's what I've been reading today. I know the story, of course - the Muppets taught me well - and the more i read the more I'm impressed with the timelessness of the lessons it contains.

This morning it seemed terribly apt. The snow has mostly melted, leaving the pavements covered in almost invisible patches of treacherous black ice. It was bitterly cold, and a dense freezing fog hung over the City, obscuring from view the top of the Gherkin and its new, and marginally taller, skyscraping neighbour. As Scrooge made his lonely way home through strikingly similar atmospheric conditions at the beginning of the story, so I scurried (and slid) my way to the office.

And as Scrooge ignored the pleas of two men seeking donations for the poor, so I avoid making eye contact with the people collecting for charities who camp outside Kings Cross, snaring unsuspecting commuters in their guilt-laced webs. It would seem then, that not so much has changed. Perhaps I'm not so different from Ebenezer. If this is indeed the case, then in what form would the spirits of my three Christmases appear?

THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PAST. I have perfected the art of holding a grudge, of clinging onto regret and embarrassment far longer than is necessary. From the Christmas Day I shot my mum in the face with a toy gun that propelled foam balls in whichever direction I pointed it (while shouting 'I'm not spoilt!') to the accidental flash in front of my cousin, my past Christmases have been full of moments I'd rather forget. Of course there have been happy times, too. They were predominantly happy, in fact. But it's the humiliations and awkwardness of my past that stay with me and colour my current outlook on life the most. My ghost of Christmas Past would be an amalgamation of all of these - the jokes gone too far, the drinks I really shouldn't have accepted, the tantrums and bouts of ingratitude. I was a snivelling child and a terrible teen for which I'll be eternally embarrassed - but these things have played a part in making me who I am.

Well, that was grim. But fear not - 'tis the season to be jolly after all and my CHRISTMAS PRESENT is a bloody jolly place. You see, I've learned from the past and used it to my advantage. I'm a better person, capable of thoughtful gifts and hiding the slightest trace of 'what were you thinking?' when I get presents I don't like. I've found a place and personality that I'm comfortable with and I've banished the majority of the demons that plagued me as I grew up. At the moment, I'm so chilled I put that icy pavement to shame.

And so to CHRISTMAS YET TO COME. It's hard to say what future yuletides will bring but in order to end this post in a way that reflects the unusual sense of optimism I'm currently enjoying, I'll stick to what I want and not what is definitely achievable. Some of you may already know that I'm yearning to move out. There are circumstances that prevent this at the moment, but one Christmas Day I'd like to wake up in a house of my own. I'd like to repay the favour so many have shown me. To cook Christmas Dinner for everyone that matters to me, maybe. A small thank you to the ever-patient family and friends who have stuck with me for so many years - through the bad, through the good and right up to the perfect. A bit ambitious, perhaps. Not least because I can barely cook a microwave meal, let alone a turkey.

But anyway, I hereby swear that, this year, there will be no bah humbugging from me.

On the Other Side of the Fence

When I was but knee-high to a grasshopper, my parents took me with them when they went to see Cats. I don't remember it at all, but afterwards they bought a copy of T.S. Eliot's 'Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats', the poems the musical is based on. I read it over and over again, from cover to cover. I had my favourites, of course - and the cat I identified with most was The Rum Tum Tugger:

The Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat:
If you offer him pheasant he would rather have grouse.
If you put him in a house he would much prefer a flat,
If you put him in a flat then he'd rather have a house.
If you set him on a mouse then he only wants a rat,
If you set him on a rat then he'd rather chase a mouse.

Now I'm not all that fussed about chasing rodents, to be honest, but I think I share the Rum Tum Tugger's outlook on life. The grass always seems greener on the other side of the fence.

It's incredibly annoying - to the extent that I irritate myself. The week before last I found myself, as usual, crammed onto a train at rush hour. I was one of hundreds of people jostling for space, gasping for air, throwing 'don't-even-think-about-it' looks at the man with the suitcase as big as a car wondering whether to attempt boarding. As the train trundled along its underground course, I wanted so badly to be somewhere else. Somewhere quiet, comfortable and, most importantly, stationary. Somewhere I could be on my own with my thoughts.

Fortunately, I didn't have to wait long, as I'd booked last week off. Finally I'd have a chance to relax. I'd purposely made as few plans as possible and couldn't wait to do sweet F.A., all day long. When I awoke to find the garden covered in a thick blanket of snow, with more still falling, I thought it couldn't get any better. Snow makes everything seem peaceful, quiet and uncluttered. Everything was perfect; the ideal situation for a week of ultimate relaxation.

Around three hours later, I was bored out of my mind. I had nothing to do but sit in front of the TV, and the TV was annoying me. I wanted to go out, but the snow meant that no trains were running. I even rang the office, to see how everyone was. I was bored shitless, rattling around the house like an old woman whose children have grown up, moved away and don't talk to her anymore. It nearly drove me insane and the phrase 'be careful what you wish for' had never seemed more apt.

But I made it through. The snow came to my aid, in fact - it snowed so heavily that N couldn't get to work, so I had someone to talk at, which alleviated the boredom somewhat. At least for me. Looking back, I can't tell you what I did, it passed in a blur; a blur of complete nothingness that I'm pleased to see the back of. And so, tomorrow I make my long-awaited return to work; to the busy, bustling, exciting place that is London at Christmastime. I can't wait for to be back amid the bright lights, the loud noises, the fast pace. The train delays. Slow-walking people when you're already late. The walk to the station on an icy road. WORK.

I want more time off.

On Walking [and almost singing] In The Rain

The train sat at Barbican, stubbornly refusing to move despite the chorus of sighs, tuts and four-letter words emanating from the rain-soaked commuters crammed within. After some time, the driver's voice crept sheepishly from the PA system,

"Due to signalling problems in the Moorgate area, this train will now terminate at the next station." A ripple of frustration and anger spread like wildfire through the carriage. I tried to immerse myself in it, to force myself to dread the 15 minute walk from Moorgate to Fenchurch Street in the rain. But I couldn't. The fact is, and I've mentioned this before, this my kind of weather.

The half-hearted groan I attempted as I stepped off of the train wouldn't have convinced even the least travel-hardened commuter, but I thought I should at least try to fit in. Inside, I relished the prospect of the soggy stroll ahead. My friends in Italy decided my love of rain was an anglosaxon trait, but I really don't think that this is the case. Any of you who are British or have British friends will have probably been subjected to many a lengthy moan about the weather. It's one the nation's favourite conversation topics, I think. And while I can often be heard whining about how effing hot it is, I think I'm definitely in a minority when it comes to my appreciation of the wet stuff.

Despite being traditionally thought of as gloomy and miserable and grey, rain makes me smile. I love seeing the raindrops leap into the air as they rebound of the pavement, and the way it makes the city shine in reflected light. Everything looks nicer in the rain. It amazes me that the ripples in puddles and splashes on the floor seem to be in time with whatever my iPod has chosen to play me. It's like magic. Then there's the patter of rain on the roof, which is one of my favourite noises, especially in cars when it's coupled with the sound of windscreen wipers. I've even started to enjoy the extra care rain forces you take; a leap over an unexpected puddle, for example, or the precision involved in staying upright as you slide like Bambi on ice over a wet station concourse. And then there's the politics involved in wielding an umbrella.

Take this evening for example; the pavement was narrow. A woman with a golf umbrella was coming towards me. Neither of us knew how to act. A collision seemed inevitable. I made a decision just in time; I'd lift my umbrella up, so her ridiculously oversized one could pass underneath. However, I hadn't considered the fact that the woman was a giant and about twice my height so, even with my arm at full length, my reasonably sized umbrella still connected with her's. At least she laughed, and didn't poke me in the eye with it.

Even this awkwardness wasn't enough to ruin my good mood. I felt like skipping through the puddles and twirling my umbrella. If I had a glass handy, I'd raise it, right now, to a few more joyous months of rain [check back in two months to witness me take this back].

On Winter

At work yesterday we had a discussion on which type of soup we would be, if we had to turn into a type of soup. I know it's an odd thing to discuss, but it was very close to hometime on Friday afternoon, and at least three of us were still struggling to shrug off a killer hangover from post-work drinks the night before. Anyway, it was decided I would be winter vegetable. (I've never had that soup before, but I checked and Heinz do sell it so it must be a soup of repute).

The principal reason given for my becoming a bowl of winter vegetable soup, was my love of winter and all it stands for and entails - something that I'm apparently 'always going on about'. So seeing as I won't be able to declare my love for this season to my colleagues anymore, and N zones out whenever I discuss it, I'm going to blog about it. Just once (come to think of it I have mentioned it before. But this will be the last time now, promise).

Now is quite a good time too, for winter is slipping swiftly through my fingers. It's already getting dark later. The snow's gone (which is a good thing) and I don't think there's a bank holiday now until Easter, so solid work for the next four (?) months. Grim. So, why is winter my favourite season?

- If you're outside and look in through the windows, everything looks warm and cosy

- If you're inside and look out through the windows, you appreciate the warmth and cosiness.

- My birthday's in December, as is Christmas. This equates to a huge amount of time off work.

- In summer, it's unlikely that there will ever be weather extreme enough to disrupt transport links and require a day off work.

- I love scarves and fingerless gloves.

- I love eating something hot and feeling it warm you up.

- I love buying presents for other people.

- I watch more films, TV and read more because it takes and extra effort to go the pub so actually understand what people at work are talking about.

- I love rain (although this could apply to summer in the UK, too).

But despite my love for winter, this month is dragging me down. My world has been hit by its own personal recession, and the fact that everything that I like to do costs money is being mercilessly rubbed in my face. It has also exposed a complete lack of willpower on my part. On Friday I met N after work in Shoreditch, and we found ourselves wandering in the direction of Brick Lane*. We reached Brick Lane. We walked into a curry house. We ate. Lots. Now, neither of us can afford it but I could not say no. I couldn't muster any energy to resist the temptation. This meant that an intense guilt washed over me the moment I put my knife and fork down. The same thing happened on Thursday evening, when I went out with the Fellowship of the Moan (we're back) for post-work drinks and rolled home at midnight really rather worse for wear. Now though, I have nothing left. It has to stop. But there's like two weeks left until pay day which is completely unfair (they paid us early for Christmas - thanks a bunch, Personnel).

On the upside my social calendar for February is now chock full of interesting things I have to do that can't this month, so roll on Feb 2010. Bring me your fun.

*Aside to London Girl - it would seem you were in Brick Lane on Friday too, I promise I wasn't the drunk man following you!

On Being Snowtally f**ked

Yet again I find myself writing from the comfort of my bed while my colleages are hard at work!

The UK has once again demonstrated a fantastic inability to function in any atmospheric conditions other than overcast with light drizzle. I'm not just ranting at the powers that be either, I include myself in this. If the weather decides to do anything remotely interesting, I don't really know what to do.

So last night, after a couple of drinks in a pub in Leigh-on-Sea, Essex, I was possibly the most useless person to have around when N's car couldn't make it up a steep hill due to the snow. If we'd left when it started instead of gawping at the pretty white snowflakes landing in the sea we might have been ok, but we didn't - we made sure we stayed in the pub until the bell, and then frolicked in the fresh snow for a while. This meant that by the time we made it back to the car, not only were we knackered, but also bloody freezing and soaking wet. Sensible. So, we got halfway up the hill, before N's noble steed packed up. I then witnessed a parade of people that crushed my faith in humanity almost entirely. One man stood and watched while I slid around behind the car - when I asked him if he could help he said he didn't really fancy it. ABSOLUTE TOSSER. Car after car went by and nobody helped. Some laughed, some gave advice, most looked straight ahead but nobody helped. THEN FINALLY, through the snowfall, a knight in shining armour appeared and with his help we managed to get on our way.

For all of two minutes, at which point we hit another hill. Three attempts and an hour and a half later, we cleared hill # 2! Hurrah! And slid into the kerb, damaging one of the front wheels. At this point we were both sitting in a nervous silence, listening to each revolution of the wheel praying that it wouldn't fall off. Actually, I'm not sure I prayed, but at one point I was exercising the power of my mind, thinking "If I just imagine that the wheel won't fall off, it won't, and all will be well. All. Will. Be. Well..."

And it was, in the end. Eternal thanks to the man who helped on hill #1, and the second man who stopped to check we were ok on hill #2. To the man who watched and laughed, and the chavs who nearly hit us speeding the other way, I hope you got frostbite.

ON A LESS BITTER NOTE, series 1 of E4's Misfits has just finished. In my most humble of opinions, it was fantastic. It was SuperSkins - fantastic young actors, a gritty setting and a plot that allowed them to explore comedy, action and, towards the end, drama. I am biased as I do like homegrown talent but this was one of the best new programmes I've seen in a long time.

Happy SnowDay!

tbr

On Caviar & Comics

Tonight was my work Christmas do. And it was quite a do. Having had a couple of days off, I went to the office, glanced briefly at an inbox full of troublesome e-mails and then headed off to the Covent Garden Hotel for lunch.

We were told to dress up (unusual for an office full of Converses, jeans and hoodies) and I'm glad I did - the hotel is beautiful. We were shown to a private room in which I was not the only one impressed by the cloth wallpaper...or wallcloth perhaps. I'm sorry, I don't know the correct term. The food was fantastic. I had caviar for the first time - not much I hasten to add - a small helping on top of the rémoularde which accompanied my starter of smoked salmon. Fear not - I'm not going to run through the menu, but for a born and bred Essex boy I feel caviar in a swanky hotel is something of a milestone :) In all honesty, there wasn't even enough of it to really taste it - what I did manage to separate from the rest of my meal felt a bit like I was eating tiny bubbles. You can take the boy out of Essex...

Then went on to the pub - so please excuse any glaring spelling errors, 'tis not my fault but the fault of the good brewers at Becks Vier.

When I left this morning, sliding along the pavement like Bambi on the ice due to some new shoes I bought with my birthday funds, it was so cold my fingers nearly fell off and each breath hung in the air. I'm not moaning though - I love winter. It is my season of choice, and not only because it houses the joyous anniversary of my birth. I think everything looks better in winter. Lights shine brighter, homes look more inviting and there is a lot to be said for knitwear and winter jackets. I think winter suits London, and after some drinks in the pub, I took some time out from my desperate laps around Covent Garden Market in search of a public WC (I'm sure somebody's tampered with the signs, I was on a wild goose chase for a good 20minutes) to take some extremely festive photos on my new phone!

Yes, new phone. I am now a card carrying member of the I-Squad and have to admit that I love it. I don't know how I functioned with a phone minus all the clever little applications you can download - although I am trying to stay aware of the fact that they are money-making machines, Apple is terribly efficient in offering you applications that do exactly what you need, exactly when you need them. I MUST BE CAREFUL.

Saying that, I downloaded a clever little app that lets you download comic books which I'm really impressed with. I'm not a massive comic buff, but it's quite interesting how the designers have made use of this new platform when laying pages out - pressing next doesn't necessarily take you to the next page, but zooms in a different part of the current spread, or zooms out to show more, so that you bounce from speech bubble to speech bubble like you're watching a tennis match. Very clever...

The particular comic that impressed me was called 'The Stuff of Legend' by Mike Raicht and Brian Smith, illustrated by Charles Paul Wilson III and published by Th3rd World Studios. The artwork is breathtaking - all in sepia tones which is in keeping, I suppose, with it's WW2 setting. But while WW2 rages in the background and is rarely commented on directly, a battle on a smaller scale forms the main storyline - that of a group of toys, come to life in The Dark (a world inside their owner's cupboard, full of abandoned toys) on a quest to rescue the boy who owns them from the Boogie Man. It may sound odd, but give it a go - I do recommend it.

Anyway, I'd best be off - have to get in early tomorrow to actually deal with the e-mails I 'filed' this morning!

Festive wishes,

tbr

PS What a rant - Christmas - caviar - 'why I like winter' - new phone - comics - sorry, will try to be more structured :)