I visited several pubs in central London last night, and without exception, they were all so full that I think I may have permanent dents in my flesh from being packed in with others in such close proximity. It's always pleasing to see so many people enjoying the city, but it's sad to think that the reason the bars are so busy at this time of year is that most of these people don't go out the rest of the time. Which is a shame. Poor them.
We were out for our choir's Christmas party, and reliving too much of it here would be foolish as only about three of my five readers will know who I'm talking about. Suffice to say that, when we'd spent many hours annoying many hundreds of innocent yuletide drinkers by singing unrequested and unclapped carols, there were five of us gigglingly walking the streets, wondering where to go now that everywhere had shut. And, always the happy hostess with the mostest, I invited these four young whippersnapping lads back to my flat, where we played a kind of uber-drinking game, the highlight of which was a round called 'Bunnies' and one where we had to play 21 using Roman numerals. Alex drew a short straw at one point and had to drink a glass half full of a beer and whiskey blend. At 3am, I was in my trainers downstairs, using a bucket of water to swill away the vomit that he had kindly directed over the balcony onto my ground floor neighbours' gate and front pathway. It was remarkably viscose. Then I put the four boys to bed and slept fitfully, dreaming that I was tidying my flat and then waking up to realise with irritation that I had to do it all again in real life.
Now I'm sitting on my sofa, fairy lights ablaze, candles glowing, Bob Dylan wafting through the airwaves, blanket over my lap. The plan was to make mince pies and go Christmas shopping but that's looking increasingly unlikely. Apologies to family and friends, I appear to be having too much fun to buy you things. I think I need a nap.
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