The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

If I'd told my five year old self that I'd one day be going to sleep with a stocking full of presents in the room, perfectly content not to open them until morning, it would have seemed like the ramblings of some complete lunatic, someone who had spectacularly failed to grasp the basic concept of the single most exciting event of the year. But that is what I am just about to do - having insisted upon having a stocking, even though I am, strictly speaking, a touch on the old side for one.

I spent probably about six Christmas Eves in complete sleeplessness, giddy with anticipation. The worst time was at my Great Uncle and Aunt's house, when I was convinced Father Christmas wouldn't know where to deliver my presents. I couldn't see that my parents had already tucked them away at the end of my bed, and lay awake, sobbing exhaustedly.

These days, there is nothing mystical or secretive. I sit up until my mum knocks on the door and comes in with the stocking, we have a chat and she dumps it at the foot of the bed, then I go to sleep like any other day and almost forget about it when I wake up. Strangely, I do still insist on showing my parents everything I got in the stocking, as if they hadn't seen it during the wrapping process about 12 hours previously.

I can't remember when I stopped believing in Father Christmas. I do remember having a conversation with some friends when we were about 9 or 10 - I'm pretty sure we knew the truth back then, but we weren't quite giving up on him, and were discussing the whole thing in quite a rational way. The evidence I had to offer to the debate involved waking up and finding my dad putting the presents out. He hastily patted me on the head and muttered something about "just checking he'd been", but it must have sewn a seed.

Out of all of us, I think I was one of the ones who wanted to carry on believing the longest. Even now, there's something a bit magical and illogical about it that I love, despite the trauma this time of year used to cause, and the obvious glaring facts to the contrary - I had a little start earlier, just for a fraction of a second, when I realised I hadn't arranged a mince pie and sherry, or Rudolph's carrot, and had to check myself. And I still won't hear a word against the tooth fairy. I don't believe there's any way my parents could have carried out the tooth/coin exchange, under my sleeping head, and even the fact that my mother still holds a pot with my baby teeth in isn't changing my mind.

Hey, you, get off of my chair!

When I started this blog, I thought it would be easy to keep it up. I'd thought for ages "I'd love to keep a blog, if anything I'd update it TOO regularly, hahaha". Then I actually started a blog, wrote about three posts and then got bored. Because you need something to make it actually interesting - a theme, like music, or film reviews, or knitting patterns; a life filled with excitement, or at least lots of sex, or the ability to present things through good, perceptive and thoughtful writing.

I've spent the past few weeks putting off my next post while wondering which of these paths I would attempt to venture down to save it from becoming a dull and narcissistic ramble.

But I'm brought back by a rant.

My office chair is broken - it's been quite wonky since it was put together by one of my boss's children over a year ago, but then I go away to Rome for three days (which was very nice, by the way), come back, and it's completely destroyed. It's so lopsided now I have to brace myself against the desk to keep myself in it and cling onto drawer handles if I so much as sneeze. So I swapped it with a co-worker's. She's only in for a couple of hours a week while I'm here for 10 hours some days, she totters about on six inch stilettos most of the time so she can't complain about a bad back and, most importantly, she's a bitch. Who I should have known better than to compete with. I had about half an hour of the most comfortable sitting of my life, then pop out for a five minute lunch break and when I get back she's here and she has, of course, swapped them straight back.

I know it was me who started it, but the way she said "I've swapped your chair back - it seems to be broken" the minute I walked in has made me livid. And now I'm even less comfortable than I was before.

"The Something of Boris"

This morning I opened the car door and my empty breakfast yoghurt pot was blown out by a gust of wind. As I rushed to grab it, my foot got caught in the strap of my handbag and I nearly fell flat on my face. After seeing Quantum of Solace last night, I had to finally concede that I am no Bond.

It was the first Bond film I've ever got really excited about beforehand, and it's good, of course. If you like ridiculously over the top, stunt laden, swaggering action (and I do). The plot was fairly incomprehensible, not least because I'd forgotten everything about Casino Royale except the unnecessary destruction of a beautiful Venetian building. They also seem to cut out any scenes that don't involve Daniel Craig jumping off a roof, smashing a bad guy in the face with handy blunt objects, or exploding something, which means the boring linking bits that explain how or why the action is moving from one continent to another are absent. I found this confusing, but it doesn't really matter. It's all about the explosions, and if you forget that, you're going to find it challenging or tedious.

Highlights:
- Hearing the theme tune really really loudly and being all tingly with anticipation.
- Daniel Craig being painfully good looking, what is it about his eyes?!
- Rufus Wright – actor and co-presenter of Stephen Merchant's excellent radio show – briefing M on something complicated to do with money and Haiti using a fancy computer screen. I'd forgotten he was going to be in it until a couple of minutes before his scene, and nearly squealed out loud when I spotted him.

Only one major criticism really, and that is that Adam and Joe's brilliant alternative theme tunes did not appear at any point. I rectified this by singing them repeatedly to myself throughout. Highly enjoyable.

“I need a quantum of solace, but no more than a quantum. I know they do big bags of solace, but I don't want 'em. I only want a teeny tiny slice of solace... before I SHOOT YOU.”

“I have a dream...”

Last night I had a really weird dream. I dreamt that I woke up because my friend Helen rang me in the middle of the night, and as I stumbled about in a delirious haze talking to her I spilt red wine and peanuts all over my bedroom floor. I don't like red wine at all, and I'm not a big fan of peanuts either. On Halloween I dreamt that I lived with a horrible woman I work with, and we argued constantly, until I was begging another colleague to let me move in with him. The other night I was frolicking with an enormous killer whale. I don't know what is going on in my subconscious.

And I bet you thought this was going to be about the US election. See what I did there...?

Well actually, in my dream, the reason why my friend was ringing me was to tell me the election result. She is hardcore and stayed up until 6.30 to see it all unfolding, whereas I had to be up at 6.30, so I went to bed worried, and I think that explains the turbulent night.

Today was going to be stressful for three reasons.

A good friend of mine was sitting an ELAT, the Oxford entrance test for English. He was worried, though I don't think he needs to be.

A student we've been coaching at work was sitting a TSA, Oxford entrance test for Economics and Management. Have a go at the sample paper online - it's annoyingly simple and impossible at the same time, but I really hope he does well because he deserves to.

And, far bigger than both of those, was the election result. It has been looming over me for a while now. I've been feeling sick every time anyone has mentioned Obama or McCain over the last fortnight (so no oven chips for me, even though I don't think they're related). It just seemed like so much was at stake, and I was convinced that something would go wrong - that after the last two elections left me utterly incredulous, there had to be some complication again.
But my faith is restored. Alex Salmond described it as "a victory for optimism over pessimism, for hope over fear". I like this - as an optimist to the core, it resonates with me. It's nice to win once in a while. I spent the morning singing jolly songs, beaming at myself, and wondering why everybody I passed on the way to work wasn't wooping and celebrating. And even if it doesn't last, if Obama turns out to be a warmongering, corrupt, sexist, violent and ignorant oaf, we owe him for this brilliant feeling that dreams really can come true. Though it may be best if some of mine don't.

"Another ringer with the slick trigger finger for Her Majesty"

I've been listening to the new Bond theme repeatedly on my way into work.
I am so James Bond.

Dead Set

I'd like to take this opportunity to enthuse wildly over Charlie Brooker's forthcoming series, 'Dead Set'. It starts tomorrow on E4. I'm a big Brooker fan - his journalism regularly makes me chuckle, Nathan Barley is an incredible creation and Screen Wipe is just devastatingly wonderful - so I'm quite giddy with excitement about this.

But there are two major reasons why I probably shouldn't be:

Firstly, Brooker has made it clear it's not just a comedy with a bit of a zombie backdrop, but it's going to be genuinely gory horror. In his Guardian article about it, he made this point particularly clear, stating: "I sincerely hope some of you vomit."
And if anyone does, it'll be me. I'm pretty squeamish, regularly feel queasy when channel-hopping past Holby City, and this is probably not the sort of thing I'd normally watch.

Probably more importantly, I don't yet know how I'm actually going to see the show. We still only have FOUR channels in my house. It's like the dark ages, or 1996. And I'm not sure if it'll be on 4od, because I can't get that either - I have a mac. I am technologically incompatible with Charlie Brooker. And so, although it's unsupportive, I'm going to have to hope some unscrupulous technical genius makes it available to download somewhere or watch on youtube.

Maybe, because I wish nothing but joy and success upon him, I'll buy the DVD when it comes out. But I refer you back to point one for the reason why I need to check I can endure more than 20 seconds of it before investing actual money.

Credit Munch

After weeks of naive optimism, and with recession officially just minutes away, I have finally been struck a devastating blow by the current economic crisis... Pret have put the price of their Superclub sandwich up from £2.85 to £2.89. And, it could be my imagination, but it looks ever so slightly less crammed with chicken-and-bacon-y deliciousness.
I am withdrawing all my savings first thing tomorrow, and if you need me over the next six months you'll find me hiding under the bed. We're definitely doomed.

"If love is just a game, then how come it's no fun? If love is just a game, how come I've never won?"

Don't be misled – this isn't going to be a rant on the state of my love life. (That's best summed up by my post from the 9th October.)

It's actually a lyric from the wonderful Noah and the Whale, who I went to see last night at the Carling Academy in Oxford. It was the first night of their headline tour, and I like to think it was a good start, the crowd were wildly enthusiastic. For me, it was one of those rare gigs where everything was just perfect. Firstly, and most importantly, their fans seem to be mostly very short – I felt like I was one of the annoying tall people which was a new experience – and I had one of the best views I've ever had of a gig. They looked so pleased, and a little surprised, with the response they were getting that it was incredibly endearing. They played my three favourite songs – Jocasta, Rocks and Daggers and Five Years Time – all in a row. And I discovered that there is something even better than a man with a guitar – a man with a fiddle. Tom Hobden, quite adorable. Although I was shocked to realise when I got home and did some googling on the band that he is younger than me, which feels inappropriate and wrong. It always seems unfair that there should be people younger than me who are so hugely talented when I am yet to develop any noticeable talents of my own, and I can remember days when my heroes were all twice my age.

Anyway, before I get onto the good old days (when, incidentally, you could get a bag of crisps and a Capri Sun and still have change from 50p) I'll conclude. Noah and the Whale = brill, and I cannot stop humming along. If I had one criticism, it was the absence of Laura Marling's beautiful backing vocals, but it was testament to their brilliance that I didn't let my fierce Marling-loyalty stand in the way of enjoying every minute enormously.

"Like when you wake up behind the bar trying to remember where you are..."

So my attempt to write something every day has seriously failed. Probably no bad thing. But it has been an eventful week.

Overall, I've been in very high spirits:
- Last night I went to see my absolute hero, the lovely gorgeous fantastic singer Jenny Lewis. She was, of course, fabulous. I wont rant on about tall people at gigs, though it was marred slightly by the fact that the best view I got of her was through the display on someone else's outstretched camera, and other than that I was mostly left squinting at the top of her hat. But she was quite charming, and although her new album - Acid Tongue - doesn't yet live up to Rabbit Fur Coat, the songs all sounded brilliant, especially Acid Tongue itself, The Next Messiah and Sing A Song For Them. And Rise Up With Fists - maybe my favourite Jenny Lewis song. Although as soon as I wrote that I thought of all my other favourites (pretty much every song on Rabbit Fur Coat. It really is a good album.)
- Perhaps more importantly, I work in an international college and this week we passed the challenging middle stage of an inspection process. And I have the best registers the inspector has seen!
- My fave person at work got back from a three week holiday. I was saved from talking to myself any longer.
- I went on a one day First Aid course, and have since then cried out "I know First Aid!" at every opportunity. I don't know why, I'm literally terrified of ever having to use the skills, so everyone around me has to be extremely careful.
- Today I had a reckless shopping spree (despite my gran's warnings about the recession - I don't really understand what it is so there's no point worrying) and bought, amongst other things, some really comfy new PJs and moo cow patterned slippers.
- Finally, flicking through the Guardian Guide this evening, three things made me smile: Charlie Brooker on the cover; Adam and Joe in Radio Pick of the Day today (it was a brilliant show); and Radio Pick of the Day on Monday is the aforementioned Jenny Lewis in session on Radcliffe and Maconie. Can't wait.

And, although something a bit rubbish did happen, I was half expecting it and had quite geniusly resisted reading Charlie Brooker's Guardian column all week so I had something when I needed cheering up. Nothing like an invisible apocalypse to bring joy back into your heart.

Tired. That is all.

I meant to try and write something here every day, but on days when my brain is as numb as it is right now, this is probably a bad idea.

Late again

I missed the bus this morning.

It's not an uncommon occurrence - I've probably missed at least 40% of the buses/trains I've tried to catch in my life, and every day I was at school I had to run like a maniac while the bus sat and waited for me, or didn't occasionally, depending on how the driver liked to get their kicks. As you can imagine, I was really one of the cool kids at school.

The problem seems to lie in how I think about time. For some reason, despite the fact that it is a glaringly obvious feature of the universe, I can't seem to get it into my head that it takes TIME to get to the bus stop. No matter how many days it happens, I still somehow imagine that if I've managed to jumble all my clothes on by the time the bus should be leaving, that's enough. And in actual fact, there's a five minute walk to the bus stop that I just haven't considered, not to mention a whole load of making sure I've got everything in my bag, finding my jacket, and putting on shoes. On top of this, the more time I have, the more I relax and don't bother rushing, so my routine expands to overfill whatever time I give it.

Fortunately, I still live with my parents and my dad is going the same way as me this morning, so I've got a lift.

Unfortunately, he has no need to rush, so I'm left twiddling my thumbs while he has some pancakes and a leisurely shower. On top of this, he is blessing me with some of his pearls of wisdom: "you need to change your internal body clock by a few minutes" is a good one. And "you need the bus driver's number so you can ring him when you're leaving the house" could just be the solution to all my woes.

The only trouble is, I'm late and it's irritating.

Doing cool things...

"You should write a blog, you do loads of cool things", a friend said to me yesterday. And so, because yes I would jump off a cliff if she told me to, I am.

Sadly, it's not really true about the cool things - I'm usually in my jimjams by about half seven - but I'd just mentioned I was going to A Tribute to Nico at the Royal Festival Hall, which I'd seen quite a lot of hype for. Unfortunately, I imagine it'll get pretty mixed reviews - the audience didn't seem to fully go with it, mostly because it was pretty challenging to work out who anybody was, and you can only enthuse over complete strangers for so long. The trouble with tortured musicians communicating exquisitely through their art is that it doesn't help all that much with the practical side of things. A German family came up to me in the interval and asked if I could explain what was happening and if John Cale had been on yet, and as he was pretty integral to the whole thing I don't know what hope the Fiery Furnaces, Mark Linkous of Sparklehorse, or Liz Green had. I don't think I helped the family much, they started rambling on about Nico's importance in "the Factory", and although I'm almost certain that they meant this in the Warhol sense, they were so puzzled that it's possible they'd mistaken the whole thing for an evening dedicated to an old pal from their days in the steel works.

Highlights were:
1. Guillemots being totally brilliant despite the shouts of "Who are you?" from the audience.
2. The fantastic Nick Franglen of Lemon Jelly grinning away as part of Cale's band, and the way the two of them looked like they were great pals.
3. Lisa Gerrard in a stunning dress-and-shoes combo that made it literally impossible to walk like a normal human being.
4. Liz Green - whose name I only worked out after a bit of googling this morning - who is quite brilliant.
5. The Band Aid style singalong at the end. And a guy sitting behind me having the exact same thought and shouting out "Do They Know It's Christmas!" as they started.

So, it was an interesting night - there were some very good bits, but overall it didn't really hang together all that well, and I'm glad I had a free ticket. The trouble with tributes is that they are always missing the thing that's so special about the tribute-worthy one, and everybody involved - while they may be brilliant in their own right - doesn't actually get to do anything much.

I think I might have preferred, just slightly, sitting at home listening to 'The Velvet Underground and Nico' in my pyjamas.