I am proud to say that I have scaled new heights of insanity and plunged greater depths of Mad Hatterness than ever before. A challenge for one such as I to be sure, but by Zeus I've gone and managed it.

In the early hours of the morning, unnaturally wide awake after a mere smattering of sleep (my liver doth protest too much at the wine of russet hue, methinks), I could be discovered sprawled within the sheets of my bed listeneing to Prokofiev's 'Dance of the Knights' from the ballet Romeo and Juliet on my electric-pink i-pod at full blast. Complete with flamboyant arm gestures worthy of the most passionate of conductors. And enthusiastic (though, admittedly, silent) singing along to the rousing chords that herald the descent of feuding Montagues and Capulets. It is as if the fires of hell open for the length of a track, apocolypse is upon me in vast swathes of smoke and brimstone, I am Juliet ready to die for love, my heart about to burst through my chest, and... then I press stop and settle down to sweet dreams of men in tights.

By the way, silent singing along consists of very intense mouth miming, with gob wide open, and a great deal of imagination. That's for those of you who have never given silent singing to classical ballet music a go. Which everyone should. Preferably in bed. At 3am. Does wonders for the soul, believe me...

Pop Goes the Bubbly, and Pop goes Anna!

Apologies for bringing the mood down, especially at this festive time of year, but I feel for those geese destined for fancy foie gras tins in their afterlife. Aside from all that comes with being a moral vegetarian, I take particular umbrage with this form of rearing birds. I feel their pain at being stuffed and stuffed until they bloat, making their livers engorged and fatty. And all to make them ready for the 'refined' palates of the rich. The cruelty is blatant and I won't dwell on it, but will instead move on to the more jollity&mirth steeped self-inflicted gorging that is in such abundance at my favourite Christmassy time.

Though decorations are aplenty during this season, bedecking halls and whatnot, it is a shame that balloons are not traditional fare. I could well stand in for one of these hot-air filled adornments, feeling as though I may pop if a pin punctured my wee pot-belly. Though it would not be a raspberry of air that would burst out, but a spray of mincemeat, ice cream, chocolate and chestnuts in a spectacular, seasonal fountain. Pa has an oft-repeated refrain that surfaces at times of excess of food and hugs, which goes along the lines of 'Don't squeeze too hard or the green stuff will squirt out of both ends'. This could be a very real possibility this year- you are forewarned...
I am considering adding one of those squiggly Spanish symbols above at least one of the n's of my name (which this keyboard doesn't seem able to express, unfortunately, showing a shameful lack of multiculturalism) as I am currently enjoying being very like a pinata: party time, glitter, bright colours, decorations... and hit me with a big stick and I'll explode in a shower of sweets, spurting out all manner of partly-digested goodies, festooning all with a churned up festive feast!

I need to go on a whirlwind, roller-coaster sleigh ride with Santa in order to shake it all up. I need to shake, shake, shake it like the proverbial Polaroid picture in order to shift and shape. Shake it down to get a J-Lo booty. Shake it up to get Angelina Jolie lips. Or shake it all about for a good even spread like the infinitely more fabulous Jo Brand. She may be marshmallow-soft around the middle, but she's got a tongue, mind and wit as sharp as a meat cleaver. And that, after all, is what matters.

Click-click, Whooooosh!

After driving over Putney Bridge for the third time in half an hour, thoughts turned to magic powers.

We, a car-load of Kirks, were taking a tour of London. Granted, this wasn't actually what we were supposed to be doing. But it was lovely nonetheless. Following the river in search of Hackney and sweet, sweet windband music, we saw the many bridges lit up in all their glory, one after another, and sometimes four times over. And, of course, the jazzy fairground London Eye, ghostly, mist-swathed St Paul's, amber-lit Houses of Parliament and many riverside city gems besides. London plus Night multiplied by Christmas equals awe and wonder squared.

Nevertheless, there were places to be, flutes and bassoons to be listened to, and tempers and tensions to be calmed. The most common answer to the question 'What would your super power be?' is probably the power of flight. I, however, would love to be able to disapparate. This would be the perfect magic gift. Time, money, stress, and unpleasant experiences on buses and tubes would all be saved. One would only have to think of the place they want to be and - kazaaaaam! - there in a blink of an eye.

When discussing this, one little cousina of mine, at the time sporting a Christmas cracker 'tache which was a little unnerving, quoted the late, great Judy whilst clicking her heels. 'There's no place like home, there's no place like home...' She had hit upon something. This motif from the Wizard of Oz is very similar to the whole disapparation ideology. Only it is SO much better as it involves fabulous shoes. Sparkly, ruby heels that glitter and hold magic powers? Yeah, baby!

And the best bit? They wouldn't even pinch and cripple squished feet. Walking is not necessary when sporting these beauties. A couple of clicks and you're (very stylishly) away!

But if I did have a pair of these of course, I never would have discovered the delights of Putney Bridge. Three times.