Aftermath

Many more musical instruments, means to make musical instruments a lot louder, conributions to the demise of the earth through use of fossil fuels and rolls of discarded wrapping paper, and about 3 tonnes of Roses chocolates later...

Whilst still in the depths of Christmas fatigue, a heavy fug of alcohol soaked fruit and chocolate settled, blanket like, about me, I am attempting to flop. As in relax, do nothing, chill. But I am plagued by an infuriating cough, phlegm fest in nose, and the need for lists. Lists for leisure. Things to do when doing nothing, if you will.

It is in this interim, between Christmas day and the whole New Year fiasco, that one finds oneself experiencing a little of the anti-climax and at a loss as to what one should actually do. No present buying/wrapping/unwrapping to do, the Compulosry Family Walk over and done with (and with surprisingly low quota of grumbles this year; Christmas therefore a success!), feast preparations all done, feast consuming pretty much done (with the exception of the Christmas cake, which with a bit of luck should serve for next year's aswell), novels, dvds etc all beckoning to be indulged in. Which is what I should be making the most of and doing. Cultural stimulation, guilt free. But it isn't guilt free, and that is the nagging problem. Though I have the odd bit of homework, it isn't pressing. And room is reasonably tidy. So I should be free to enjoy the contents of Santa's sack. Except guilt is well and truly impressed upon my dna strands. May have something to do with all the religious connotations of the season, we are all born sinners, must tirelessly work to improve ourselves and must consistently feel guilty etc. God knows why it is supposed to be a time of cheer and jollity.

I will try, however, to take time out from guilt and, indeed, from outside world as books, television, dvds etc take precedence. I'll save the guilt for after New Year, when it will really be needed. That it is the time to face the consequences, after drink-fuelled revelry and the realisation of true laziness have occurred. Tis the season and all that.

Festive = Frazzled

You know it is the festive season when...

1. Enough nights are spent out drinking and celebrating to start being endearingly nicknamed 'Vodka and Kirk' by fellow merry revellers.

2. The arguments, chez Kirk, increase at an exponential rate, regarding such things as bauble placement, who actually gives two hoots about the advent calendar, whether the person 'in charge' of decorating the tree is also given licence to select the tree in the first place, why people just aren't being goddamn festive, cheerful, or merry enough. The list goes on.

3. Tacky, kitsch, and overthetopness are good. Crucial even.

4. The most amount of money is needed, yet the least amount of money is available in my account.

5. Not only are people going out unattractively donning their skimpy finery, goosepimples and all, but they are doing it wearing Santa hats, red and green colour schemes, and liberal doses of glitter.

6. It is acceptable to listen to Wham. 'Last Christmas' is a classic.

7. Ditto Mariah Carey, with 'All I want for Christmas'

8. The idea of hot wine with things floating about in it is an appetising one.

9. Religious services, songs praising God and Jesus, and scenes depicting the birth of Christ are positively encouraged by the resolutely irreligious mother.

10. Overindulgence is suddenly alright. Nay, necessary.

11. 'The Snowman' can reduce one to tears.

12. The air smells of spices, chocolate, pine, and log fires.

13. Sentimentality is a must.

It's a wonder we survive it every year. And a wonder we want to do it again the following one. But, as every Kirk knows, you can never ever break traditions.

I'm rather taken with this quote from a novel I'm currently reading,

'There's no need to intoduce exciting words like 'want'. It's what I'm realistically anticipating'

Ain't that just it in a nutshell. Nothing like a bit of literary summing up.

It's not what you know, but who you know

A common and banal question often asked is who would one like to have as guests at a dinner party, living or dead. Well, anyone can avoid interesting and scintillating conversation when glugging booze and gushing over the lightness of the beetroot mousse or cauliflower froth. A far more telling situation would be when browsing in a bookshop, in a booth at the local pub, or sitting in the waiting room of a sexual health clinic, for example.

This is my list...
Simon Amstell
Jo Brand
Colin Firth
Cleopatra
Paul Merton
Margot Fonteyn
Jon Ronson
Nancy Mitford

I, of course, would be far too intimidated and terrified to utter a word however.