Xmas

The great thing about being home for Christmas is the ‘family home’ is a ten minute walk away from the actual home.

Although I have not left the ‘family home’ and returned to ‘actual home’ yet because I ate the contents of the fridge before I left and this place has pigs in blanket on a permanent cycle.

But Christmas is great, isn’t it? You get all the presents from the almighty Santa deity which you requested via Amazon, and then every pair of tights that primark owns.

(I picture my mum standing at the checkout with twenty pairs, umming and arrring over whether it can ever be enough)

Christmas day was a Bridget Jones style comedy of errors. We discovered the turkey my mother bought was actually a turkey crown, and had been slowly dying in the warmest part of the fridge for the last week. We reassured ourselves with the comforting thought that we had all questioned the smell, but sadly had not investigated any further.

cue fast cuts of my sister and I opening the fridge and exclaiming ‘what the hell is that smell,’ and ‘mum, something has died in here’ and ‘it’s the ghost of some old cheese.’

We ate Salmon and Gammon and agreed that turkeys were wankers.

But I made ‘Cobbler.’ This was my contribution. My sister took care of everything else, and my mother made bread sauce. Because she insists Christmas isn’t Christmas without bucks fizz before 12, and a mountain of dry bread sauce we all can ignore.

The Cobbler looked and tasted marginally better after it had been put in the oven.

 

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I got books as presents.

I had expected this, so prepared by finishing Anna Karenina before Christmas day, so could work on The Goldfinch, which I hope is better then The Little Friend.

I had enjoyed Anna Karenina, but felt it could have done with a time travelling book editors touch. ‘Now Tolstoy, do we really need this very long section on the electoral methods of local government which doesn’t even seem to serve the plot indirectly? What about this terribly dull hunting trip where next to nothing happens? No? I’ll just get back in my time machine and visit Ayn Rand.’

 

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I hung out with my cat. Who likes everyone, so I try not to feel special, but sometimes I hear him whisper my name.

 

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And I discovered the Bristol Old Vic is putting on Jane Eyre in TWO PARTS around my birthday.

And got even more excited when the puller quote they used on the flyer was the same as my tattoo.

 

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IT’S A SIGN! Of what? I don’t know.

There is a portion of the film script myself and Tom Betts are writing (it’s called The Photographic Memory Recalls the Highlights of the Year, see other blogs I have written/my life for the last three years) which focuses on Christmas. Which made sense to attempt on Christmas day.

And then re attempt the next day when I wasn’t so drunk.

‘And he gets her a Cliff Richard calendar, and vice versa and HAHAHAHAHA.’

Ten days until we hand the First Draft of that baby in to Western Edge Pictures. Eeeeek.

etc.


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