On a positive note, my exile from writing meant I had more time for browsing and on Christmas Eve, I accompanied Marieceleste to the exclusive underwear emporium on Market Street. Sadly, my £10 per day budget wouldn't buy me a thong in there but we got caught up in the whirl of the place. She spent loads but after a piercing stare and the flourish of a tape measure, I was sternly informed I was wearing the wrong cup size and left empty handed. Why? Because the average pair of underwired cups on some elastic averages out at a breathtaking forty quid and I still had gifts to buy. After a whizz around Ashby Market, I dropped in on Aldi in a panic having forgotten the Panettone. Fair enough, we only have it once a year but without its soft texture and hazelnut crust, my signature dish of bread & butter pudding is pretty lacklustre. I broke my own record for a trolley dash, hoovering up some sherry, a bottle of brandy and several bottles of Prosecco to wash down our festive food. Pity none of the above alcohol could improve the mincepie-flavoured Wensleydale. Alphonse poked a noggin around his plate with a cracker to alleviate the boredom during Dr Who then turned up his beak saying,
"Can't I just have a mince pie, or cheese. Not together." Still, the blackbirds loved it.
'Not writing' became the norm and far from developing cabin fever, I threw myself into the holidays with uncharacteristic flair, making my own bunting and brewing up six pounds of marmalade on Boxing Day instead of dragging myself to the Next sale. When I finally got to the Retail Cathedral it still had that unwashed hue reminiscent of the Souk at Hammamet and having dressed for arctic conditions when the store was superheated to ninety degrees, I made a break for the coolness of John Lewis. Except some joker had upped their heating too and, feathers off, I was down to my vest and leggin's in the appliances department. A beetroot face isn't attractive and after a mere sixty minutes I returned to the nest with fresh provisions vowing not to return until February at the earliest.
New Year's Eve was a whole day off work and a welcome respite from the aggro that seems to accompany the daily toil. I've taken to wearing earplugs so as not to hear my colleagues moaning. While everyone has been standing around in corners having a bit of a whine, I've been mindful of the passing of very difficult year and had planned an early night with a good book until Them Next Door suggested we have a blow out curry. And we could walk there and back to settle the naan bread a bit. Anything rather than endure the torture of Jools Holland's Hootenanny although we were back in time to see Gary Barlow and his weird haircut, and I vaguely remember singing 'Rule the World' to the cat.
Happily, I made no real resolutions for the New Year except to wear red like Dame Helen Mirren because it suits me so much more than black. The feathers stay of course but red has a whole different energy. And when my Epiphany came along on the 6th, it arrived from the pen of J R R Tolkein who wrote "Not everyone who wanders is lost." Well I've wandered far too long my friends and lost sight of who I really am, and this cannot go on. So in 2014 and I hope you too will find yourself renewed before many more days have passed. Happy New Year.
Raven
