Hey, never let it be said that I don't know how to party. Actually Lord H & I were appalling layabouts today and didn't actually get out of bed till gone 10.30am, and weren't capable of answering the door to anyone (at least not decently washed and with clothes on) till gone midday. Shocking behaviour. We decided the Finger of God would indeed point and find us wanting, but if we whispered, He might not hear us. Let's hope He doesn't read blogs then ...
However, we redeemed ourselves in the afternoon. Lord H nobly filled in my tax return (thus earning him at least 50,000 Husband Points - and, hey, Points mean Prizes! - for the year to come) and discovered that Gordon Brown owes me £120 due to general governmental cock-ups over my tax code. Mean bugger. I shall be straight round there on Tuesday demanding what's mine. Probably worth watching the news then in that case. And I sorted out our cars and attempted for the second time to cook a decent roast lunch. Which happened - again - to be lamb. Um, that'll be another failure then - is lamb supposed to be that pink? Really? Ye gods. We could have had starring roles in TV's recent adaption of "Dracula" and not have needed the skills of the make-up department. Suffice it to say that I will never again cook roast lamb, as I obviously have no talent for it. And Lord H is in charge of tomorrow's roast turkey for sure.
Oh, and I made a concerted effort and managed to squeeze out another 1000 words to "The Gifting". Funny how these ideas float around my head and they never actually make it onto the page. At least not how I envisage them. Do all writers have this terrible gap between imagination and reality? Hell, don't answer that - it may well just be me. Still, I can only do my best.
This sudden burst of activity has been followed by a much-needed nap and my usual bout of end-of-year depression: comprising of (a) oh God, I haven't done half the things I dreamed of this year and there's only five hours left to do them (b) there's only one full holiday day left and I have to drag myself to work again on Tuesday, and this week off has been such an okay time and I hate the thought of leaving it. So bloody much! However, the good news is that Lord H and I are being Class A Party Poopers tonight and are staying in and not even bothering to stay up. We have half a bottle of champagne in the fridge which we will have with a mince pie and rum butter (made earlier today - I remembered!) later on before turning in with our fluffy dressing gowns and slippers. Bliss indeed. This is so definitely the way we prefer to spend New Year's Eve - I hope I can make it a tradition.
And I've just finished Tim Cantopher's "Depressive Illness: the curse of the strong". First-class stuff. If you're depressed, or know someone who is, I can highly recommend it. Short, practical and clear - what more could you want?
This week's (and the end of year's even ...) haiku is:
Poems are for trains:
the rise and fall; the rhythm;
the lilt of the track.
Happy New Year, everyone. I hope 2007 will be good to us all.