Christmas Spirit ...... woooo000oooo00000oooooh
Now Playing: Simon Callow playing Galileo in typical hammy uber-luvvie fashion
I spent today feeling shitty, tired, increasingly depressed about Christmas (the celebrations so far consisted of watching people get pissed and congratulate each other on the wondrous state of their truly disastrous love lives at Duch's yesterday, till it all got too much and I had to leave to get emergency chocolate eclairs to feel better). I got the last of my presents, but all the shopping centres in East London were wickedmadcrowded. I had to park on the seventh floor of the Cruellest Cornered Car Park Ever, then run down nineteen flights of stairs to get change for a parking ticket, and back up again to put it in the car window, then down again to do the last minute present shopping, only to find that WHSmith have decided to stop diversifying into stocking actual fiction in their bookshop. Aaaaargh!
Wandered around the local pikey markets until the Christmas rubber nurse uniforms and splitcrotch knickers became too depressingly nylon (this was Stratford, bargain-hunters, if that sounds like just the last minute gift you were searching for - and all under a fiver, too).
The biggest nightmare of my 2003 Christmas holiday is that I have inherited two spoiled cats from the recently deceased relationship, and if I want to see any family, I have to drive them across country. Getting two cats into a tiny vet-smelling cat carrier then driving for two or three hours is going to involve blood, permanent facial scarring, fear-related poo and puke on all sides. Not to mention that if I let them loose inside the car, the only place they would go is beneath the brake pedal. I begged Wickedex to take the animals to her family's place, but they are overrun with free roaming gerbils. I did point out that cats like gerbils, but to no avail. I am stuck with unwanted cattitude.
So today I trekked to Beckton pet store, Plan B in the Quest to Find a Container capable of locking two insane felines down for two hours, preferably without causing unnecessary expulsion of stomach fluids from either end. So now I own a miniature, incredibly, stupidly expensive Dog Tent, which Fat Cat is currently snoring inside, and twenty four cat sleeping pills. God grant me the serenity not to deploy all the pills at once.
Suddenly strikes me that I haven't told any of my family I'm bringing animals with me. Uh-ohhh. Given that my parents mutter "we're not taking those damn cats if you get bored of them!" every time they see me, they may panic a little when I roll up at the door with a Dog Tent. Ah well, let's hope a shock's good exercise for the old ticker, eh? Either that or they read the blog before Thursday. (Well, some of the blog. Not the shag posts, obviously.)
Now I just need a large cardboard box, to convert the Dog Tent to something with enough room for two bad tempered animals who hate each other to survive without eye contact. If I bought a crate of wine I'd have a box of exactly the right size, but I'm absolutely certain that impending Christmas Negativity would also see me breaking my teetotaller vows and drinking it, so that option is out. Hmm.
All day, some talk radio DJ kept haranguing Londoners about when and how we know that The Christmas Spirit has arrived. For me, it's the point when you stop protesting and surrender. I have my marker pens and my Evening Standard TV guide ready; let the ceremonies begin.
Christmas Cracker Joke Survey 4:
Q. What do you call a bee with a quiet hum?
A. A mumble bee.
(Dammit, I can't remember which cracker this one came from; but the jingle is a good one...)