Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Thursday, 15 January 2015
I can almost taste that Scotch Egg
I think that a lot of us have slammed into the wall of January a lot harder than usual this year, but I suspect it is much to do with a sort of post-viral condition which makes the light at the end of the tunnel seem even further away. This is what happens when you wake up an animal which needs to sleep until April, and everyone I know has had the same, six-week cold.
An unusually large number of people seem to have died over Christmas as well - many of my friends have suffered some kind of loss, either of other friends or kin. Today at 1.00pm, Neville - he who was pictured leaning against the tombstone - is going to be waved goodbye to in Bath Abbey.
As I went to bed last night (I didn't score, Weave) the unlit Christmas decorations were swinging like hell in the 60 mph winds outside. I love that - tucked up in the warm, listening to extreme weather-events outside. The only slight feeling of unease is the half-thought about the chimney stack falling through the roof and pinning me to the mattress. It's happened before, but luckily nobody was in the bed at the time.