Paper Trail.

That awkward moment when a housemate (disliked) jumps into the bathroom whilst you gather your towel in hand. Frustrating.

I was in the gym for 7, I've gone from feeling smug to deprived of my extra hour in bed.

Still, working 11-8, couldn't be classed as a way to make a living. Another awkward schedule I'd like to remedy. The nature of retail. Retail schme-tail.

Flicking aimlessly through the virtual pages of the Daily Mail (judge) I can't see the wood for all the bloody celebri-trees. I don't want hardcore political, or economical pounding, just a light summary littered with images. I couldn't care less about yo-yo Katona, who's left TOWIE (lie) or the pathetic attempts to explain why Wozza stole some cheese.

The paper's a snorefest. Still tomorrows fish papers. Are they allowed to do that anymore?

Braille.

Yesterday was Braille day. I have a blind aunt. I never realised she was blind as Mother always taught us to treat her like a very special person because she wore glasses and walked differently.

I recall giving her a birthday present about 14 years ago. It was a white handbag. She thanked me for the black purse & it hit me. She only had 10% sight. It's now 0% and it breaks my heart.

My Aunt Margaret Mary. Blind and unable to walk or communicate effectively.

On a lighter note, I asked her recently if she'd like to learn Braille. She replied that she's far too busy at the day centre; not only does she have daily massages, but is a keen cook, artist and avid shopper. In the past year she has sampled pizza and pasta for the first time. Aged 54. In her opinion latte's should be priced at £1.

Just one of the gaggle.

Don't go back to Dalston.

2012, greetings.

Mine was relatively uneventful. Toiled til 6, dined at 7, arrived at a Holloway flat filled with East London strangers. Including;

I was donning this;

(God awful image, best of a disastrous bunch)

I mingled with my bottle of Cava, sipping through my straw, I was polite with a forced edgy streak. & still it boiled down to my questioning what 'cool' is.

At one point in my past 'cool' was pineapples;

She was an idol of mine to boot. Realistically, she's the reason my thatch is the shade it is.

This was cool;

Some remain cool, some don't (you choose).

The fact is, I'm never going to be cool. I try too hard to portray who I want to be*

Yet when the industry you're trying to be a part of looks fairly like those featured, I may have to slip into some ill fitting gear, dance to tunes without words and swig Red Stripe.

It really isn't what you know. This angers me.

Still; I did see that netting around the face is going to be big, plus beehives (thank's Ab Fab). I may be in luck, love a full circle I do.

I left the cave-like club we ended up at, achingly hip Dalston #Occupy The Future. End of days. at 12.17 and delved into my freezer for some frozen yoghurt.

*Kitty. I appear to be turning into Kitty. I'm 23.

Hidy-high.

Hidy-low.

How was it? Magical? White? (!) The most wonderful time of your year?

Or was is squabble filled, intoxicating (both ways) & false?

Mine was a mixture; a lot of nick-naks were received, infallibly bogus pleasantries exchanged but at the root of this suffocating few days there was pure joy.

Mother was a treat; laying on spreads, waiting on my small but demanding family without a groan, and her happiness was contagious.

I'll note a few amusing trinkets that were bestowed upon me & chit-chat about them some time in the near future;

Irish mouth spray; 'One spray & you'll be almost Leprechaun in accent'

Nautical note cards; not indie type images, 18th Century frights

Ice scraper with fur glove; I don't own a car

Inflatable beer bottle; hate the fluid

Slinky; best of a bad bunch

Still, my brother was blessed with 3 sets of blister plasters. Individually wrapped. How I laughed.

I was full as a Lord, complacent and blithe. It ticked the boxes.

Could've done without 'Ding Dong Merrily on High' on repeat throughout dinner though.

Heel.

Why do we say that to our non-communicative canines? Is it to draw them to our heels as I assume? If so, I find this quite offensive on their behalf.

I popped on some trotters today to scoot to an agency interview. A PA agency. I was put through my paces with speed, touch typing and SPG tests. I enjoyed it.

The outcome was 51 words per minute, minor mistakes in touch typing and bang on the money for SPG. I did not, however, receive a gold star. Foul play.

Leaving me disgruntled (it was too quick an application; I'll get no call, that I'm sure of), I took a stroll (heels still on) to the Royal Mail sorting office, Wood Green.

Helping several geriatrics as I went, I was feeling buoyant and almost festive. I slip into the 13 deep queue, amongst some Scots. Their banter was audible, though I couldn't decipher most. Filling my time with Tweets and e-mail deleting I admired the weather.

Slap my knee and call me Janet, who joins the line? Alex Zane no less. I freeze. I stare. I keep staring for a whole 10 people til I am poked in the arm to pass my parcel request over. I'm playing it cool, naturally.

His curls are taut, though I can only see a few as they're stuck under an OTT beanie. I could get used to it though, gun to my head & all that. The males facial hair is magnetic and his relaxed-casual get up is ... alluring. Is this love? Possibly.

It's not reciprocated. I'll tell you why;

The package I'm picking up, is not a package - it's a card. A monstrous card from my mother. All singing, all dancing Christmas humdinger. It's tinsel, baubles and gaiety that I've been avoiding. What's worse, I have to pay £1.12 for the pleasure of receiving the damned thing.

Bollocks, I don't have the cash, my shrapnel only reaches 90 pence.

I look to love of life. Nothing. Blank.

I look to postman. Request to try before I buy (open the card).

BOOM a crisp ten pound note. I pay with it.

Shuffle out & mourn the lost lust of Zane.

Heel.

Mr Men.

Never have I seen so many men.

Crimson faced, lamb-like in their demeanor, padding around a ladieswear store like priests in a lingerie department (for Father Ted fans).

I play a game (passes time). Imagining what their spouse looks like. When I ask 'can I get you a size?' if my idea is correct, there's no prize, but self satisfaction - ah but who can put a price on that?

Whilst on the subject, as a Christmas treat (used loosely) my boss bestowed her troop with Mr Men mugs. Mine was 'Little Miss Industrious'. That was the intention at least, for what it actually said was 'endustrious'.

SPG. If I weren't so inebriated I'd have said a line or two.

Holly.

Fact: I don't feel Christmas-like.

I hate the use of 'Crimbo'.

That may sound dejected. I wouldn't say I was. I am in fact enjoying the music. Radio2 & 6 are certainly the cinnamon on my morning latte*

My abode is void of tinsel (joy) but a lone card rack in my room is not in any way festively encouraging.

Perhaps it's because I'm away from home. Still, there's a few more days to get into the swing of holly. I won't give a blow by day account.

Regent Street is open til 8.30 tonight. Fan-bloody-tastic. Naaat.

*by latte, I mean hot chocolate.