Just like last year, one can't help but feel that if you're not fat, hungover, and realising that you'll never be bothered to do anything, ever again, then you haven't embraced the true spirit of Christ, and his like, Mass.
Turns out making Christmas dinner is not as hard as everyone makes out. And this is all thanks to an appliance, which was a jolly good investment; a mother. They do get a bit pissy about you not using coasters. But if you leave the washing up for long enough, they just do it. Awesome.
I've also recently purchased a brother (previously I sold him to the States for a year). Not so recommended. It takes every Ad break as an opportunity to fart, employs balled up wrapping paper as a weapon, and relieves its bowels with the door open. DO NOT WASTE YOUR MONEY FOLKS. Just get a mum and be done with it. A mum will even watch Rude Tube with you, and get upset that number 1 is Justin Timberlake giving a girl a present of his dick in a box.
It's nice being indoors so much when the house is this God Damn festive. This year, my family have tish toshed at the idea of a Christmas tree, and opted instead for the more traditional potted fern (not decorated). We had all our presents assembled around said 2 foot tall plant. Ah bless. It's not bah humbug. It's a recession. And it's not just the public sector who are feeling the pinch.
This is what 2012 looks like; everyone is over Christmas. That was like, so last year. They've been forced back into too tight office attire, forced to shove themselves onto cold, delayed trains. And they are pissed. Do not ask them to move from your booked seat. It's not worth it. The way they look at you is a promise, a memorising of your face. One day soon, they will track you down, and stab you, in the same way you have just apparently stabbed them.
There is approximately a four second pause where they stare, mortified, mouth agape, at you, a you is already fucking with their baby faced New Year. You Nazi. You January bastard.
I reflect fondly on Christmas Eve, when a walk through West Bridgford was like being on the set of a sickeningly cheesy American Santa related film. The children were laughing. Single mothers bellowed 'Good morning!' from across the road. Elderly men smiled to themselves and almost skipped along. But not now. Oh no, that won't happen again for another eleven months. Forget all about that sunshine. We're bitter now, tight lipped and offended. Driving like lunatics, manically swapping between lanes with complete disregard. So depressed, we find ourselves, in this windy, sodden month, that we don't much care to survive it.
I have somehow managed to cling on to a little cheer, for a whole eight days! Despite collecting a good few awkward moments, without which, I would not have this blog.
I was making my way to the lift at work, keeping pace with a blonde woman. A man shouted over from reception, 'Has anyone dropped a purple glove?'. I threw my hand in the air as I turned, 'Yes, that's mine!'. I assumed. It's rare to have purple gloves, and I walk around the world, littering it with my dropped possessions. Next to me, the blonde woman had also stopped, 'No it's not yours. It's my glove!'. I looked closer (my eyes are shitty mcshit shit). It was leather. I have wool gloves. 'Oh, yes,' I said, 'Not mine.' Then we shared a moment. All five of us: myself, the blonde, the glove finder, and two onlookers. And in that moment, four people looked at me and thought, that girl steals gloves, single gloves. She's a dirty little single glove stealer.
Luckily I'd been unconsciously txting busty, instead of busy, to people all day. Because I am never too busty to see anyone. So I think my rep is safe.
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