After all my complaining that no one really wants the presents they get for crimbo, Santa went and brought me a bundle of brilliant gifts that I totally love. Santa rocks. No one brings out the materialist in people better than ol’ St Nic.
I’m still glad it’s all over though. Most people seem to feel the same. In fact, skimming through my blogroll earlier, I found the collective sigh of relief among my regular reads to be quite terrifyingly enormous. I am seriously worried it might cause a hurricane, or something.
So take this a severe weather warning. I know I won’t be risking it out there for a while. I’m very much enjoying being home - back ensconced in my study, with all my own stuff around me, drinking tea out of my favourite mug.
You know, when all's said and done, it's the little things in life that mean the most to me. I first noticed this when I opened the iPod Nano my boyf bought me on crimble day. It really is tiny.
I met up with a fellow work-from-home-freelancer for a few drinks last night.
My friend was lamenting the fact that she didn’t have an office party to go to. So we decided to make the evening our own little office Christmas party and took the opportunity to bitch about our lazy-assed capricious bosses (who are ourselves). Then we confessed to each other all the times we’d pulled sickies or sneaked away from work to do stuff that was more fun.
Later on we noticed that there didn’t seem to be a photocopier in the pub, so we considered taking photos of our bums with our mobile phones and maybe printing them out when we got home. But in the end we decided it probably wouldn’t be the same and settled for taking our bosses home to bed instead.
When I woke up this morning, both the boss and I were a bit embarrassed about the whole thing and we agreed to forget all about it. In my experience it is not difficult to reach an agreement with someone who is yourself.
It is, of course, now necessary for me to do the morning-after-the-office-party-gossiping, so I have to go and make a cup of tea and giggle to myself about it.
I spent the weekend at my boyfriend’s parents’ house. His sister came down with her two kids. There was turkey (or nut roast) dinner, and crackers, and present opening, and everything. It felt a bit weird to me, doing Crimbo on the 16/17th December. But I could hardly refuse to join in.
I don’t know, perhaps I’m getting a bit grouchy and mean now I’m Almost Thirty. But all watching the kids unwrap their few-hundred-quids-worth-of-plastic made me feel was slightly nauseous and depressed. Afterwards it was like Toys R Us had exploded in the living room.
What happened to the one-big-present-and-a-few-little-presents system that Santa used when I was a kid? I thought it worked pretty well. At least you knew which thing you wanted to play with.
I guess things have changed a bit since the 1980’s in
No doubt there’ll be a similar scene at the kids’ Dad’s family Crimbo this time next week as well.
We’ll be doing it all over again with my family too. And I’ve gone and arranged to go out every night this week. I’m going to be exhausted by the time Crimble is over. It’s really lovely to see everyone and everything. But, for someone who normally spends most of her life confined to her own study, it is a bit much. I kind of want to hide.
Maybe I should write to Santa asking him to send me a hiding place? It’d be good if he could chuck me a few quid to pay for all the presents I’m having to buy as well.
Or, better still, perhaps I could suggest he takes next year off. That way, maybe the rest of us could just enjoy each other’s company without having to stress about what presents to buy and spending ourselves skint in crowded shopping centres in the weeks running up to Crimbo and then having to find the energy to look enthusiastic about stuff, which you don’t really need, but other people have bought you so it is necessary to make out that it makes all your yuletide dreams come true and more.
Do you think there's a chance he’d let us give all that side of things a miss just for one year? That’s the kind of Christmas I dream of anyway.
I went to Tesco this morning. I thought morning would be a good time to go because no one goes to the supermarket in the morning and so it would be quiet. I forgot that I am wrong about things quite often though. The place was packed.
I couldn’t understand it. It’s only a small Tesco and doesn’t have much of the kind of stuff people would buy for Crimbo pressies. So I asked the woman on the checkout if she knew why it was so busy.
Before I tell you what she said, I’d just like to say that I’d appreciate it if you could read her words to yourself with a West Indian accent. She didn’t have a West Indian accent, I just like the idea of making you do that.*
“Oh well, everyone’s got to get all that extra food in for Christmas”, said the checkout woman.
“But it’s still over a week till Christmas isn’t it?”, said me.
“Yeah, but most of them start eating their Christmas dinner on the first of December you know.”
I looked at checkout woman’s badge. Her name was Jasmine. I like Jasmine, she’s funny.
*She did really.
*Worth a look*
You know I said I was going to see a band in
I’m not usually too fond of working in offices, but I have just returned home from a day working in-house at UKTV and I have to admit that I found the experience really quite positive. The commute was only about 45 mins, I had a comfy chair to sit on, they didn’t overload me with editorial guidelines, and I had lovely double-choc muffin from the canteen at lunch. Yumbo.
I think the main thing that made it a nice place to work though, was the fact that the people there were so nice and friendly and down-to-earth. This is, sadly, a bit unusual in the media in my experience. Too many people have massively inflated ideas of the importance of themselves and their jobs, not to mention obsessed with Cool. Maybe it’s like that in all industries, I don’t know.
Looking back, I might’ve been a bit like that too, when I was a keen-bean, just starting out, 8 or so years ago. Nowadays, I love being able to write for a living, but I know it’s just words. I mean, I’m thrilled when people say they enjoy my stuff, but it’s not like I’m out saving lives or anything.
I was invited to the Radio 1 Crimble party this evening. 8 or so years ago that would’ve been something like a dream-come-true to me. I still was pleased to be asked. Then my friend called asking if I fancied seeing her mate’s band in
But, I guess in the last 8 or so years I’ve learned a bit about what I enjoy doing, and that it doesn’t always have to be what other people think is cool.
You know what? Being Almost Thirty rocks. I'll let you know how the gig went tomorrow.
‘Curvy, brunette nurse from They know this because they did a survey.
I don’t know who they asked, perhaps it was some characters from a Carry On film.
Clearly, they didn’t ask me. I mean, get real.
I personally would not accept anything less than a bodybuilding fireman, who always pays for dinner, drives a flashy red sports car, and is the proud owner of an enormous…
Collection of books.
I’m not sure what I was thinking that would look like, but there was no large grouping of people that I could see (and I was about an hour late). So, I ended up spending the afternoon with the boyf and his mates from his hockey team. They had won their match and were celebrating. One of the last things I can remember is playing a version of Operation where you had to drink snakebite and blackcurrant if you messed up. This is not the sort of thing proper writers like me are supposed to do on Saturday afternoons. Especially not when you are Almost Thirty.
The problem with playing Operation in that way is that it is very easy to fall into a spiral of decline. It was even worse because most of the bones that the patient needed to have removed were missing, except for his Horse and Apple bones which, as any decent surgeon will tell you, are the most difficult to extract without making your patient’s nose buzz and therefore incurring a purple-nasty penalty. I still have a bit of a headache now.
Sorry fellow Brit Bloggers, I’ll try to be less of a lame-assed chicken person next time.
There is a little shop down the road from me. It is very convenient and stays open late and has all the sorts of things you need in an emergency. Like ice cream.
Imagine my delight when, during an ice cream crisis last week, I went over to the shop and found they had my most favourite sort of ice cream, which is Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food… I am concerned that you might not be imagining my delight correctly, so I am going to explain that I was very pleased and did a little smile.
However, my glee was diminished somewhat when I took my Phish Food to the till and was asked by the shop owner for a payment of five pounds sterling.
“£5 for one small tub of ice cream - are you insane?”, I said, silently inside my head, whilst handing over five of my hard-earned quids, before smiling and thanking him.
I know for a fact that I could’ve bought a pair of Christmas nipple tassels, or an inflatable man for that amount of money, so this transaction can only be described as a rip-off.
I was just about coming to terms with this a few days ago when, in the freezer section of Tesco, I saw that they were selling two tubs of Ben & Jerry’s for £5. This of course bought the whole painful episode flooding back. I was very brave though and chose a tub of Fossil Fuel as well as Phish Food.
I still have the Tesco's Phish Food unopened in my freezer and I’m thinking that a good way to get my revenge would be to take it to the rip-off shop, pretending it’s the one I got from there, and demanding a refund – thus making a £2.50 profit. In fact, I could buy lots more tubs from Tesco and keep taking them back to the rip-off shop (wearing a different hat and false beard each time) asking for refunds. If I did this ten times I would make £25, which I could use to buy five sets of Christmas nipple tassels or five inflatable men.
It is only my good neighbourly spirit (and the fact that I think I have to go and eat some of the Phish Food now I have been thinking about it) that is preventing me from going through with this.
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I went to a Christmas do at my boyfriend’s school last night. He is a teacher, not a schoolboy, so it was a staff party.
The school he teaches at is very posh and so are the teachers. They come from all over the country, but no one has an accent. I found this a bit strange at first, but now that I am more used to posh people I know that it is because you are not allowed to speak with an accent if you are posh.
Being the least posh one there doesn’t really bother me, but it probably doesn’t help me to feel any less of an outsider. I suppose it’s always a bit awkward going to someone else’s work do though isn’t it? Especially for a natural attention seeker like me (I am a middle child, so therefore it is my parents fault and I accept no responsibility for it. I didn’t stand a chance), but I guess I have to expect a bit of people-talking-only-to-my-boyf-seemingly-oblivious-to-my-existence at that kind of thing.
It’s the small talk I really struggle with though. I just don’t see the point in pretending to be interested in someone’s job/kids/holidays. Perhaps I’m getting grouchy now I'm nearly 30.
There was a time when I used to think that I could get on with everyone, that I loved meeting new people, and that I could just slot in anywhere. But, looking back, I only really used to meet people who were of a similar age, interests, and who often also worked in The Media, at the time when I thought that.
When I first moved in with my boyfriend, among the school, four and a half years ago, I thought I’d just slot in here. But it hasn’t really happened. I mean, I’m OK, it only takes about 30mins to go see my mates in
I don’t know, I'm wondering if maybe I should try harder with the small talk… So I have decided to think of some opening gambits that would start the conversation off in a direction that would be stimulating for me.
I have thus far come up with the following works of social genius:
"Hello, I am Julia. Do you like Rod Stewart (but not the American Songbook albums, which sucked)?"
Or,
"Nice to meet you. Isn’t it annoying that Woolworths have altered the pick n mix?"
Or,
…Oh yeah, that reminds me - there was a £5 Secret Santa last night. Me and the boyf put in a pair of Crimbo nipple tassels and an inflatable man. (Because we are very wacky and funusual.) And do you know what we got out? A miniature whiskey and some shower gel.
The boring swots.
Come to think of it, those lines would probably be wasted on them.
I have lots of things to do today, so I thought I’d make a list of 10 things that I thought were cool when I was kid, but couldn't have because they where too expensive, thus elevating said items to the status of wonderous glittering treasures...
Probably partly because of my social climbing, but also because I think things are more affordable generally in this country today, I am able quite easily buy any of these for myself now. Except I don’t want most of them anymore. I only have two. Can you guess which?
*Be there or be a big boring square*
Let me know if you’re thinking of going.
Lorraine says she’ll be there too.
I’m going to be thirty soon. This is not old anymore. Thirty is the new twenty-one, and if you don’t know this then you are so not with it, man.
I probably should have party. And if I want to have one I’d better think about sending invitations out soonish. But, the thing is, I have never had a birthday party before. Not since I was a kid anyway.
I usually tell people I don’t want to have a party. Of course, the truth is, I would love to. I go to friends parties and I think it must be really lovely to be the host. The real reason why I have never had a party is because I don’t think anyone would want to come…
I’m not feeling sorry for myself, or fishing for sympathy, or anything like that. It’s just that my birthday is on January 6th, which is the day when people traditionally take the Crimble decs down, return to work after the holidays, or congratulate themselves on sticking to their healthy diet and no alcohol resolution for almost a week. People are not in the mood to party on January 6th.
It’s been worse over the last few years because, working as a freelancer from home, I’ve lost touch with a quite a few friends, and I rarely meet new people, so I’m not exactly the social bunny I was in my early twenties (now the new teens, if you were wondering). I gingerly emailed a few people asking them to come to the pub on my birthday a couple of years ago – only two of the eight I asked showed up. So this is not simply my own paranoia. After that I was convinced that trying to throw a bday bash would be a recipe for dejection.
But 30. Everyone has a do when they’re 30.
So I’m thinking about it.
Maybe I will. How bad could it be? At least if no one showed I’d have a whole cake to myself.
I’ve had a few extra commissions lately so I’ve been working on those since finishing NaNoWriMo on Monday. But now I’m missing working on the novel and I’m also worried about losing momentum – if you’ve been visiting me for a while, you’ll know how long it took me to get it…
So over the next week I’m going to swallow hard and begin draft two. To tell you the truth, I feel a bit dishonest calling the Nano manuscript my First Draft. I think of it more as collection of notes, ideas, and explorations. But anyway, that’s just semantics I suppose, it’s still a starting point.
I’d like to set myself some goals and put them on here. This being my first novel though, I don’t know how long stuff is going to take me, so it’s hard for me set realistic goals. Especially as December is about the busiest month of the year. What I think I’ll do for now is sort out a plot plan and then maybe just stick a new word counter up. I ought to be able to have that done by the end of next week.
It’s funny that I seem to have almost no sense of shame in most areas of my life, but I would feel bad about not meeting writing goals I’d made public… Maybe that means I take pride in my writing. Gosh. Next thing you know I’ll be buying special moleskin notebooks and talking about The Muse.
I have quite a few relatives, and of all of them I find my Grandparents the trickiest to buy for. My Grandma is a bingo fiend and their house is stacked with radio alarm clocks, sandwich toasters, scented candles and all the other crap I usually end up buying people when I don’t know what to get them.
Last year I came up with the genius plan of buying them an Oxfam Funusual gift. (What Oxfam have done there is they have added an F to the front of the word Unusual. This is because they think it will convey the imagine of an enjoyable and quirky gift. I suspect that they do not realise that it sounds really twatty and actually conveys the imagine of a bunch of cheesy advertising bods doing a brainstorm to think of name for Oxfam’s fun and unusual Christmas gift donations.)
The Funusual gift I chose was a goat. My Grandparents didn’t get to keep the goat though, it went to a family in a famine-stricken region of
“That’s lovely Julia, I expect I’ll get lots of letters from
I didn’t really have the heart to disagree. And since then I have been wondering if there is a way I could send my Grandparents a thank you note pretending to be from an African Funusual Goat Owner.
I have also been a bit concerned about whether the recipients of the Goat have been happy about it. I mean, what if it was a naughty goat that ate all their clothes off the washing line or something? (Or does that not happen outside of cartoons?)
Or what if they never wanted a goat in the first place? A goat might have been the last thing they wanted for Crimbo. I might have sent them the equivalent of an embarrassing Christmas jumper. All their mates were probably walking by on Boxing Day giving them knowing grins and nodding sympathetically as they struggled with another clothes-eating unwanted Crimble goat.
So, this Christmas I have decided to give a donation to a small charity (who won’t send me a Fun-omenal amount of letters asking me to buy more Funusual gifts). And I am going to write my Grandparents a poem each.
Perhaps I could pretend they were written by the owner of the Funusual goat? Let’s face it, if they’re anywhere near as cringey as my usual poetic efforts, I certainly won’t want to put my own name on them.
*Worth a look*
The Pundy House is always worth a visit, and in December Bill will be hosting his very own Literary Blog of the Year Awards. There’s still time to get your nominations in.
