Oh dear, oh dear, DOUBLE DISASTER (for a very limited value of "disaster"): I have failed in my advent mission. Firstly, my phone would not work on the boat. Nor, that said, would my brain, due both to a virulent cold and to a rather insistent swell, which forced me into bed at 9pm with my eyes shut and the light out. I am furious about this cold, since I have had a form of pestilence since the first week of December and thought I would have offered sufficient sacrifice to the festive gods by now. It appears not, since this new and delightful strain has taken its place, seamlessly, in the last two days. Secondly, F, to whom I delegated advent calendar packing, forgot to bring my present envelopes. DISASTER (still for a limited value of "disaster"). I know yesterday was a lemon and ginger teabag (no picture, in the general pre-departure chaos). We will have to make up the last few presents. So: this morning's was an heirloom potato, I have decided, in a sturdy Kraft paper bag.
We have reached York, despite the best efforts of the sea and the UK Customs authority and my children who appear currently to be constitutionally incapable of exchanging five civil words with each other. Within twenty minutes of landing on Prog Rock, we were out, trudging around town, in the traditional fashion, eating carbohydrates. I have managed to propel myself into a new, chest-tightening level of panic by unwisely going into: Hawkin's Bazaar (boiling, packed, terrifying), Waterstones ("Marvellous Maths" out of stock. Incidentally, nothing makes you sound like a joyless, harridan bastard than asking for 'Marvellous Maths' on 22nd December. "NO, HONESTLY, HE LOVES MATHS"), Lakeland Plastics (bewildering), Marks & Spencers (last dregs of goodwill to all men violently removed through my kidneys) and Boots (setting off some kind of counter warning at quantities of decongestant purchased). We have retired back to the Prog Rock sofa, from whence I have no intention of moving for the next two days except to stare into the fridge. Assuming F's ordered online presents (plus Letters of Note book for Prog Rock's girlfriend) arrive. If not, it's back out into the feral, pasty eating crowds. Shit. I can't even really stand up, because my inner ear gave up the ghost somewhere twenty miles off the coast of Hull. They'll have to roll me into town and deposit me outside Barnitt's (excellent window display of decorative plastic ferrets, to follow tomorrow when my phone is located/charged).
I have to go now because I still have to write an article about New Year's resolutions for tomorrow morning whilst off my face on Sudafed and wine, so that's ideal. Any ideas for food/children/outings themed New Year's resolutions gratefully received.
How are you holding up? Sinking into a wild-eyed, melted credit card and cinnamon scented funk, or smugly bathing in frosty pine and Carols from Kings?