Thursday, 3 January 2008

If you really love me, come on and let it snow

Christmas is over, the fattened goose consumed, though not before laying the golden egg, and even the new year has been rung in, auldly langed by us truly from the bow of a ship permanently moored on the Thames; the fireworks briefly igniting the night sky, until the low cloud cover caused the smoke to subside all over the river, obscuring the rest of the festivities in a haze of boozy revelry.

The train companies celebrated the new year in their usual manner, by not running properly for the crowds of dazed returning worker. That is, those of us who bothered to come in; it was a new record sick day, the papers said -- which may indeed be the case, with scores of hospitals now closed due to some highly contagious flu. You know it's nasty when instead of calling it the flu, the call it a vomiting sickness. But actually my train was running on time, and my only consolation prize was another increase in ticket price. In the past two years my usual fare has gone up 18%, which I suppose is my hard-earned reward for my dedication to avoiding climate change by using mass transportation. Thank you, Southwest Trains, may I please have another?

But enough about trains, let's talk about snow (the right kind of snow), which is rumoured to maybe, just possibly, fall in London, but probably won't. Which, in an odd and thoroughly roundabout way reminds me of the film Love Actually, which I actually love. I don't think I saw any Christmas films this year -- we were going to record Elf, which despite its cornball surface has a strangely compelling, Zooey Deschanel-inspired heart -- but LA is definitely near the top of my list, up there with that Jimmy Stewart one where the angels get their wings, despite the bad part with Keira Knightley (in order, the best stories are Bill Nighy's, Emma Thompson's, and Colin Firth's).

So there's really no point to this post at all, but I thought it was high time I wrote something. So, um, happy new year.

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