The bell-wearing Christmas beast has finally spat me out and I'm crouching here in the corner, blubbering and afraid. Don't ask me why my laptop is in the corner of my wine cellar.
I got a blizzard or texts lol-ing at the New Year's wishes I'd sent friend and foe:
"Happy Birthday Mam" was the result of Christmas ham fingers and stupored gobbledy turkeying.
There is little point in recapitulating or summing up the festive period, just as it is pointless to try to wring some sort of meaning out of the year that has passed.
What I will say is that people seemed to be lamer this year than before. I found myself calling everyone bores over and over.
Being accused of being a frightful bore used to send the chaps lunging for the booze stand, but this year it was I, Party Jack, who was the bore for trying to flog the dead horse of the night. Reprimands of 'grow up' and 'slow down' and 'it's not funny anymore' and 'seek help' were woven into their sighs and excuses of fatigue. I felt like a leper.
Has Time finally wattled and daubed us to the walls of our thirties? It certainly wasn't like this a year ago when I was clinging on for dear life to the fleeing hours of my twenties.
So, I start the year with a certain malaise.
Another Crisis In Foptown