Yul Brynner-tide

At last!  The office has that odd festive feel.  Everyone has been champing at the bit since about 1.30pm, desperate to make an early segue without damaging his or her career prospects at the same time.  I've been trying manfully to concentrate, but who am I kidding? it's not a day for intellectual endeavour.

I'm going to scoot off in a moment and meat Mrs O for a brace of sharpeners.  Thence home to fire up the central heating.  It getting cold in London, which is annoying as it was a mild morning.  This means I've been left high and dry as regards warm clothing.  I've had to grab one of the bastard Xmas jumpers that they were handing out at work.  That should go down a storm with the trunks on the train home later.  Still, needs must...

Gareth Ale

I'm off out tonight.  No great surprise there, I hear you shriek; it is Friday after all.  Ah, yes, but tonight I'm not going to one, several or all of the four (count 'em) pubs that lie within 400 yards of my front door.  The missus and I are off to meet friends at a microbrewery under a railway arch in the east end.  Had I told you that ten years ago, you'd have been quite within your rights to have me sectioned under the mental health act.

Not now though.  Microbrewerage, former shitholes in east London postcodes and even railway arches, I dare say, are now uber-cool.  Craft beer is all the rage in London.  Craft beer is simply real ale for the most part plus marketing.  Luckily the railway this gaff is under gets Mrs O and I home in a matter of minutes.  So it's a win:win pour nous.

Toot toot, dude!