Cold Turkey at Christmas

This Christmas I have been cruelly yet consensually denied three of my favourite things: my mum, cigarettes, and sharing a double bed with my partner. Nothing sinister at work, I just spent my second Christmas ever at my boyfriend’s parents’ place.

Thankfully, his parents are pretty much my fantasy mum and dad. His mum insists on no television - just parlour games and conversation - and makes the gravy from the giblets. His dad gently teases everyone including his wife who he still loves dearly after nearly fifty years of marriage. Bliss.

I even went to a carol service and if anyone does then surely God knows I love belting out a few songs about mangers and virgins' wombs. It also provided the absolute highlight of my Christmas when a riot nearly broke out over an indestructible piñata presented by an earnest Sunday School teacher to the family service.

After informing us of the story of the piñata's origins (something to do with Marco Polo and the devil - Christmas relevance lost on all of us) she asked the children thronged on the front pews salivating for more chocolate and Skittles, "Can you see what it is?" and they, having built the thing apparently with Araldite and gaffer tape, wetly chanted "a star" only to have the vicar (who had fallen off his chair barely ten minutes previous to this), retort "It's a chicken!", to which it did bear a closer resemblance, to be fair.

Unfortunately, this was not a chicken ready to become an ex-chicken. Even after about twenty children had, in turn, had a go at bashing the hell out of the thing with what looked like Captain Caveman's club, it was still gleefully bouncing around the sixteenth century wood-carved chapel. It got a bit frightening when eventually some of the older kids started really going at it whilst the other ones shouted "Get it! Kill the Chicken!" A perhaps not-so-rare Lord of the Flies moment in a Devonian village.

Local Jennifer Saunders was in the congregation, can't help but wonder if it might turn up in Jam and Jerusalem (Rob's mum, a member of the local WI on which it is no doubt based, underwhelmed by it so far, I think it's pretty good in places).

And we were housed in the bungalow of a fellow kind lady of the village (not sure if she's another WI-er) who was whooping it up in a Saga hotel in Winchester over the festive period and had kindly offered two single rooms for us. Again, I could complain but it was preferable to the living room floor alternative which would have no doubt involved Rob’s dad tiptoeing over me to refill his mum's sherry glass in time for the Queen’s speech (that country air really knocks me out).

As for the fags, well it’s a dull but ongoing fight against these oppressors, my lungs the Middle East of my now-aging battleground of a body. I think the UN are probably about as effective as the grubby (nicotine) patch now affixed to my soft underbelly, but it keeps my baser instincts at bay.

Thankfully whilst denied my maternal fix for the most part, I did manage to see Mother Brown on Boxing Day evening for an enormous squeeze and lots of kisses on kitchen-ruddy cheeks. Truth be told, I do actually like cold turkey - alongside an enormous pile of my mum's bubble and squeak, stained with pickled walnut juice, of course.

Back to work tomorrow. Ah well.

Too Damn B. & L.

I've moved house and work is nuts. This has left me with a racing mind, mentally spinning Welsh dressers full of plates and unfortunately dropping a few - of which my regularish updates here have been one.

I am now in Starbucks (no broadband at our new house yet), wondering why their wireless internet access isn't free, and hoping I don't have another accident on my laptop with my grande skinny latte.

I refuse to sound like one of these chaps, I've just been too damn busy and lively for my own - or this blog's - good. But instead of running away from the guilt that I feel about my lack of updates I've decided to share my confession of a selection of other things I'm feeling a whole lot guiltier about:

Not Having Flossed Regularly
This week saw the first in a series of industrial dental cleaning appointments due to years of having a literally dirty mouth. After a slightly traumatic appointment, I shopped in Hampstead (see below) talking like John Merrick as I drooled blood down my chin, one side of my mouth still frozen from the local anaesthetic. I managed to cheer myself up with the realisation that the shopping assistants of Whistles, Karen Millen and Nicole Fahri no doubt assumed I had had a bad botox job rather than the more plebeian truth.

Rash Purchases
When I find myself in times of trouble, large, stiff paper bags with soft rope handles call to me. In the past week I have bought trainers, a dress, a jumper, a shirt, a pair of shoes, two different kinds of over-priced moisturiser and a t-shirt. I realise I am lucky to have this disposable income but even I admit it felt like a bit of a problem when I described the collection of bags in the hall as "Presents!" and was then congratulated by my partner for my organisational skills. One pair of velvet gloves does not a Christmas make (the rest were for me, from me as a sign of my appreciation - of me).

Smoking (again)
The other night I found myself looking straight at the woman in Oddbins and as she handed over 20 Marlboro lights and a lighter saying to her "I am such a loser". I am also tending to smoke Marlboro Menthols in the desperate hope that my breath won't smell as bad even tho I think they gave me a nose bleed the other day as I was combining them in a lethal menthol cocktail with Airwaves gum (don't try this at home).

Reading Crap
This has included Heat, the National Enquirer (Go Britney!) and even resorting to reading free newspapers on the tube (the London Paper is my preferred option, it doesn't have offensive spelling as does "London Lite" and has at least two gay columnists - yes, I am that easily pleased). I also bought Private Eye the other day and only read the cartoons and letters.

Enough already. My latte has grown cold, I'm sure there are some pictures and captions in the Saturday Guardian I could manage (maybe just the wallchart), and the chemist in Golders Green has a good selection of makeup and perfumes I could be perusing. And I'm gasping for a cool menthol draw...

Can anyone absolve me?