December the WHATETH?

Oh good Lord, it's Christmas in a week.

I should really buy presents.

Not right now at this moment because I'm watching Catfish. I didn't even know this show existed. It's about people who fall in love over the internet but have never met. This guy takes one half of the couple to meet the other without the other's knowledge and so far NO ONE IS WHO THEY SAID THEY WERE. I mean, there were a couple of clues with the first one, seeing as no one who is a model full time and a cue-card writer on the Chelsey Handler show and a tragic past involving three dead sisters is going to be that active online anyway. But it was a girl! A nineteen year old girl! People be crazy, y'all.

At any given moment recently I will hear a rustling noise and look over to see one, two or all cats in the Christmas tree. It's driving me up the wall. Their main reason for being in the tree is, apparently, to see who can knock the most baubles off it and subsequently make me huff and puff and complain about having to hang them again. I woke up yesterday and the angel from the top of the tree was on the lounge floor, looking at me with a kind of shell-shocked, traumatised expression. She'd been through things, man.

No matter how motionless you are, I CAN STILL SEE YOU, CAT.

A plague a' both your houses.

I AM HURT.

It's a dazzlingly bright, freezing day in Jolly Old England. I would actually go as far as to say it's beautiful. I threw the curtains open this morning and the pale winter sun damn near blinded me. This, I thought, this is a Hollywood English winter morning, and I really ought to make a movie moment. I had visions of leading ladies looking effortlessly captivating in their spotless white coats, quirky hats and impossibly thick scarves.

I have a white winter coat, bobble hat and chunky knit scarf.

So, that's how I found myself walking down the country lane behind my house, having taken more care over dressing and presenting myself than I usually would to go out for a night. I had my headphones in, I was listening to Going North by Missy Higgins - it was insanely cold but it was beautiful life in amazing clarity. From the frost-bearded leaves to the diamond blue sky, it was perfect.

Yeeeah. That lasted about two minutes.

I stepped on a frozen puddle and did that impromptu Broadway dance thing of suddenly flailing arms to stop myself from actually falling. Pretty sure I made a 'HOOOBARRGH!' noise.

Not the end of the world, though. I gave an airy laugh and carried on.

But then it happened again. And then I damn near twisted my ankle off because a pile of wet leaves were disguising a hole. And THEN a pair of squirrels ran over the tree branches above me, disrupting the boughs enough to send a shower of freezing leftover rain and dew down all over me. It went DOWN THE BACK OF MY NECK. That is NOT COOL. And did you know that even though bobble hats are ridic cute, they're not waterproof? Like, at all? My hair is dyed the red of the fires of Mount Doom at the moment, but the thing with red hair dye is that it never completely rinses clear when you wash it off. That means every time  you wash your hair the water looks like someone's been murdered. So when the unexpected shower hit me, little rivulets of red started to track down my face and the back of my neck, and yes, over my white coat.

I took my coat off hurriedly as I stumbled as fast as I dared back towards my house, holding it at arm's length. I was nearly free and clear, then I tripped on what with later inspection turned out to be a frozen dog turd, and ended up on my knees in wet leaves and freezing mud.

At that very moment, a man came around the corner with his dog. I can't tell you what he must have thought, but he froze where he was and stared at me. I don't blame him, I looked insane. My hat was crooked, I was in a grey vest-top in the middle of winter on my knees in crap, with one arm thrust out holding what must have appeared to be a white coat covered in blood stains.

Man, I fled. I can't dress that up to be pretty, I had no words. I just peaced.

So, now I'm nursing a hot coffee and wishing it had whiskey in it, soaking my coat in Ace and applying plasters to my skinned knee.

I should have done what I always do and stayed inside, growing more and more pale and interesting and photosensitive.

DAMN YOU, DECEMBER.

Tra-la-la, something about Christmas.

So, yeah! It's December 1st tomorrow, how the hell did that happen? I know it is, but only because I did the song in my head, otherwise I never know how many days a given month has. It's probably a requirement for being a grown-up, knowing things like that. Sort of proves that even though I've just turned thirty, I'm unlikely to be an actual, proper grown-up for, well, never. Thirty days has September, April, June and Novemb-- Ah! November has thirty days, result.

I'd usually have enraged the Spy by already having the decorations up by now, flashing and twinkling and driving the electricity bill to as yet unseen dizzy heights. The tree would have been up a fortnight ago, already looking like Christmas vomited on it, but I'm angling for a NEW TREE this year, so it's still up there in its sad battered box.

We can't have a real one because the animals would use it as pissing post/scratching thing/excavation dig site/feast of needles. I'd come down one morning and there'd be poop and wee everywhere, the dogs would be borking up needles and the cats would have found some raptor bones in the pot and would be conspiring as to how to grow claws that big. Oh god, the horror.

The Spy was telling me earlier about how one of his co-workers has a WHISKEY ADVENT CALENDAR! How amazing is that? Instead of gross chocolate shaped vaguely like bells and evil santas, you get a wee dram o' whiskey every morning! I mean, sure, not so great for the kids I should imagine, but for us?!! (Oh, see how I suddenly want to be a grown-up. Hypocrite.) INTRIGUED by this, I set off to find my own Mecca of advent calendars, which clearly would be one with a wine bottle for every day.

They don't sell them, so I'm going to fucking trademark it. I'll make them. They'll be classy as fuck, all done in the finest plywood Homebase can sell me on the cheap, and the Christmas day bottle of wine will be vodka, because families are hard, y'all. Well, I'd like them to be super classy. It would probably turn out like some kid's failed woodworking effort.

I tried to find a photo from the internets to illustrate what I mean, but my Google-fu failed me. Between pictures of Lady Gaga, Dame Judy Dench and still from some movie thrillingly entitled 'Bad Kids go to Hell' (Bear in mind, please, that my search string was 'Terrible kid's school woodwork projects'. Dame Judy Dench, really?! I mean, Gaga, I could maybe buy that, But DJD is National Treasure) I found this picture which more or less captures the spirit of what would happen:

Classy as.

Oh, oh - and I like that Google things THIS is a failed school woodworking project:

"If only you'd applied yourself!"

That's all I've got for you today. The Spy will be shaving off his 'Mo later on, I'll be cracking open a bottle of wine, and we'll see if my favourite Blogger Amber wants my help wading through the shitefest that is 50 Shades Freed.

PEACE.