merry thing and a happy whatsit

My Christmas was spent with Lily, who cooked beautifully; Den, who washed up; Den's housemate Frank (not his real name) the Mancunian electrician, who got me pished on Chrismas Eve, told me how much he missed his closeted boyfriend who was Christmassing with his oblivious family, complimented my boobs and warned me not to get between Den and Lil cuz they're sooch a nice couple (I get this a couple of times a year. It's flattering, really. A little tedious, after a decade of friendship, but flattering); and pseudonymous Frank's six-year-old, who received many, many presents that bleeped, flashed, and flew randomly at my ankles and acheing head. Little angel.

My new year's eve was spent at a rather posh house party (there were crudites) populated entirely by beautiful women. I felt prettier for being there, because I figured they had some kind of door policy.

The new year in quotes:

"I like Madonna because she's fucked her way to the top. And I don't care what anybody says: that's a form of emotional intelligence."

"What's so good about progress? There used to be cobblestones all along my street. Beautiful. And they make the cars go slow. Then they ripped up the cobblestones and put in speed bumps."

"What was up with the meatloaf scene?" (History of Violence at the Prince Charles: four pounds; Viggo Mortensen talking like a Philadelphia gangster: priceless.)

I also spent two days on Charing Cross Road buying a tremendous many secondhand paperbacks, including two Lawrence Sternes, a Rabelais and several chunky nineteenth-century epics. Hurrah.

And I went to see some Italian Renaissance paintings at the National Gallery, because I can't afford to see them in Italy.

And I spent a day in the British Museum with a grouse individual called Luke. I met him at one a.m. in a pool hall in Hackney called Efes Entertainment Centre. I generally assume that anyone I meet in a room with more than two pool tables wants to punch me, but he only wanted to rave about the Peloponnesian War and discuss the various knaveries of John Howard (he travelled to Australia last year and chose to engage with local current affairs rather than, say, eat big steaks and hug barstools at the Coogi Bay). His reward was to accompany me to the Enlightenment room and show me the astrolabes and the stuffed toucans and the apothecary chests with compartments for human skull bits and mummy fingers. Can you imagine seeing all these stuffed animals for the first time? No wonder they thought the platypus was a fake.

There were other meetings with lovely folk whom I saw just long enough to make me really miss them afterwards. Good luck at AFTRS, Macgregor. Pete, I hope the hat worked. Everybody else, in London and elsewhere, I wish you were here. Have a great 2006.