Christmas Catch-up...

Another year another... nyeh, who knows.

It's been ages, but December was a blur, and the pre-Christmas slow-down was a sneaking, snivelling foul little misnomer. It was heinous, our Managing Ed was ill, those who have failed to pull their weight all along excelled themselves, everybody else tried their best. It was all hands on deck, and it was ugly. Ugly, but nice to know that we got through it and the books were made.

Christmas in Old Country was lovely - enough time with our own families, each other's and friends to tick all the boxes and generally have a good time of it. I think the key is not spending too awfully long in any one place and mixing it up as best you can. Otherwise, cabin fever kicks in and people get crabby.



The Lads, headed up by My Friend George (see right), took a notion that I should see Cork, so I went down on the train and toodled - it's lovely, with winding laneways and the convivial quiet of a small Irish city - with the added bonus of a Cillian Murphy sighting in a gorgeous little pub called the Mutton Lane Inn. He seems nice. The four parents were stars, putting on additional roast dinners on their child-out-of-law's arrival, and being generally fantastic. Came home with a very old and very beautiful astrakhan coat, which I now have to endeavour to get cleaned... I don't think I'm upper-class enough for this one.

Stephen's Day was at the Master's house with the great and better than us. Fierce lit'rary, as previous, and just a warm and boozy day with a beautiful view. Sketched out the barest sketchings of The Plan to those who might be interested, and my God, what a reception it had. Apparently, The Plan is brilliant. Hmmph. That may be, but brilliancy doesn't necessarily buy groceries. Very encouraged nonetheless! On the 25th itself, I began the slow process of the legal mumbo-jumbo, interspersed with swan visits.

New Year's was a blast with a weird group comprised of the Bearded One's brothers, best friends and hangers on, the Ex and two of his friends I hadn't seen in, em, two and a half years. 'How have you been, J?', says I. 'Well, I've changed careers, A and I are due to get engaged... oh, and I was in a coma for five days.' No joke. A coma.

We stayed at the Mont Clare, in a lovely little corner room overlooking Greene's as was, Oscar Wilde's house and Merrion Square. In true Irish fashion, appearances weren't quite what they seemed, as a bockety blind clattered open and a heavy mirrored door swung gracefully awry. Pretty dreamy nonetheless, and topped off by a sleepy night in on the first - somehow junk food and bad movies takes on a whole new appeal in a hotel room. Wholesome, I know...