December the 6th.
19 days til Christmas.
11 more days of work.
Isn't it supposed to feel a bit like Christmas? By law, I should be out four to six times per week, catching up with all the people I haven't had a chance to see in the past 11 months.
My daily worries should revolve around which pub I am going to, when the last tube leaves (presumably it's pretty much the same every day though the alcohol always wipes those few bytes (1) of data from my
brain), how bad my hangover is going to be, how bad my hangover is, how to deal with my hangover and how long it is til I go to the pub and which pub I am going to, when the last tube leaves, etc etc.
December is supposed to whizz past in a blur of minimal productive work, a large bucket of booze and rocketing Alka Seltzer share prices until it spits you out the other side in front of a big plate of
turkey. And mince pies (2).
Mine has so far comprised of plasterers, plaster, plaster dust, EGR Valves, Map Sensors, a fantasy car, a dream car, a breaking-down car, car worries, HPI checks, a liver scan (4), floor scrubbing, sore shoulders, a battle with invisible mice and swollen woodwork (5). And
mince pies.
During the 139ish hours that the month which has the temerity to name to itself 'December' has been in existence, I have been to the pub. Once. And only consumed one pint. It was a great pint too. Made better by the incredible company and food. But one pint does not a festive month make (6). Thou shalt not spend all thy spare time thinking of
DIY and eschewing thy wine (7) as otherwise you'll be able to stomach
your turkey without the merest hint of nausea (8).
But, how will you rectify this, I hear you think.
And quite right you are to ponder this though be a little careful as you don't seem to have got the hang of thinking with your mouth open. I don't think you should be starting your thoughts with 'But' either; it doesn't convey the sophisticated intellect you would like us to believe you possess. Oh, and you're dribbling.
So (9), hopefully things are about to change. Friday: work do. Saturday: 30th party. Sunday: friend's party. That should give me a van-sized hangover that sees me through to Wednesday night, to catch up with people I haven't seen all year.
If I remember any of it, I'll probably write some drunken blogs on the last tube home.
Cheers.
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Jesus Christ. My brain is so tangential (3) today that this blog actually comes with footnotes.
--------------------------------------------
FOOTNOTES
(1) On a side note: when you live in France and are buying a new computer, be careful with bandying the word 'byte' in people's faces. Pronounced 'beat', it is very close to the word 'bitte', French slang for 'penis'. So don't bandy bytes or even worse, megabytes in people's
faces; they'll look at you funny. Or buy you dinner.
(2) Similarly, to all of you French readers, careful with the word 'pie'. Pronounced your way, it is less appetising and very difficult to pick up with a fork.
(3) Don't question it.
(4) Turns out I have one.
(5) Oof.
(6) Shakespeare, B., 1792.
(7) Christ, J.H., 22.
(8) Rode, John T., 2008.
(9) So I started with a 'So', what are you going to do about it? It's my blog. (10)
(10) Sorry about the sudden outburst of anger. Back up the screen now, please.
(11) To confuse.
19 days til Christmas.
11 more days of work.
Isn't it supposed to feel a bit like Christmas? By law, I should be out four to six times per week, catching up with all the people I haven't had a chance to see in the past 11 months.
My daily worries should revolve around which pub I am going to, when the last tube leaves (presumably it's pretty much the same every day though the alcohol always wipes those few bytes (1) of data from my
brain), how bad my hangover is going to be, how bad my hangover is, how to deal with my hangover and how long it is til I go to the pub and which pub I am going to, when the last tube leaves, etc etc.
December is supposed to whizz past in a blur of minimal productive work, a large bucket of booze and rocketing Alka Seltzer share prices until it spits you out the other side in front of a big plate of
turkey. And mince pies (2).
Mine has so far comprised of plasterers, plaster, plaster dust, EGR Valves, Map Sensors, a fantasy car, a dream car, a breaking-down car, car worries, HPI checks, a liver scan (4), floor scrubbing, sore shoulders, a battle with invisible mice and swollen woodwork (5). And
mince pies.
During the 139ish hours that the month which has the temerity to name to itself 'December' has been in existence, I have been to the pub. Once. And only consumed one pint. It was a great pint too. Made better by the incredible company and food. But one pint does not a festive month make (6). Thou shalt not spend all thy spare time thinking of
DIY and eschewing thy wine (7) as otherwise you'll be able to stomach
your turkey without the merest hint of nausea (8).
But, how will you rectify this, I hear you think.
And quite right you are to ponder this though be a little careful as you don't seem to have got the hang of thinking with your mouth open. I don't think you should be starting your thoughts with 'But' either; it doesn't convey the sophisticated intellect you would like us to believe you possess. Oh, and you're dribbling.
So (9), hopefully things are about to change. Friday: work do. Saturday: 30th party. Sunday: friend's party. That should give me a van-sized hangover that sees me through to Wednesday night, to catch up with people I haven't seen all year.
If I remember any of it, I'll probably write some drunken blogs on the last tube home.
Cheers.
--------------------------------------------
Jesus Christ. My brain is so tangential (3) today that this blog actually comes with footnotes.
--------------------------------------------
FOOTNOTES
(1) On a side note: when you live in France and are buying a new computer, be careful with bandying the word 'byte' in people's faces. Pronounced 'beat', it is very close to the word 'bitte', French slang for 'penis'. So don't bandy bytes or even worse, megabytes in people's
faces; they'll look at you funny. Or buy you dinner.
(2) Similarly, to all of you French readers, careful with the word 'pie'. Pronounced your way, it is less appetising and very difficult to pick up with a fork.
(3) Don't question it.
(4) Turns out I have one.
(5) Oof.
(6) Shakespeare, B., 1792.
(7) Christ, J.H., 22.
(8) Rode, John T., 2008.
(9) So I started with a 'So', what are you going to do about it? It's my blog. (10)
(10) Sorry about the sudden outburst of anger. Back up the screen now, please.
(11) To confuse.
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