I'm typing this at seven minutes to four in the afternoon, and it's virtually pitch black out. You certainly wouldn't be able to negotiate a country lane without a miner's helmet on, not unless you like being run over by threshing machinery, that is.
Still, onwards and upwards. I'm off out for a drink with former colleagues this evening, and it's good weather for gathering together in a cosy boozer on the banks of the Thames to share a couple of mugs of foaming mother's ruin with friends. It's starting to feel like Christmas already. And, let us face facts, Xmas is a bacchanal. I know the Pope or Aled Jones would have you believe otherwise, but don't listen to them; the pagan festival that takes place at the end of the year, with all its attendant dancing, boozing and rutting, far far predates the arrival of Christianity. The church simply chose to hitch its star to winterval's wagon. So, be in no doubt, it's all about the carousing. Happy Christmas - debase yourself.
The only downside to this season is its length. Everyone is clammering to get drinks in the diary - former colleagues, relatives, old school friends, tramps I once gave money to - everyone. This makes matters a little cluttered. In a couple of weeks' time for example I've got carols (and drinks) on Tuesday, drinks with former colleagues on Wednesday, work's Xmas do on Thursday and a shindig at the neighbours' place on Saturday. That leaves Friday free, and Friday, as everyone do be know, is pub night. Phew is right. I'm getting bilious just typing out the schedule.
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