Hey, Barbecutie

I’m supposed to be flying home for Christmas tomorrow, but it’s looking about as likely as my being mangled by a hopped-up tapir before night’s end. The snow is, from my vantage point, six stories above North London, astonishingly beautiful. Rooftops whitewashed and unblemished, brick moorings beneath, like Christmas cards sent by your unimaginative relatives. On the ground level, as I ventured out earlier, it’s pretty rank. I live on the mainest of main roads, and the ground is slick with grey-brown mush that filters through your soles and makes your toesies drop off. It’s hard to have one without the other.

So the country in which I lay my wee head to sleep tomorrow is still up for grabs. I mean, it’s either going to be England or Ireland, unless something goes significantly wrong mid-journey. I should really be packing now, but there are things that appeal more, like watching a documentary on folk music on iplayer or pondering over ordering pizza (the latter, probably not, it’s a bit of a kerfuffle, the former, ONGOING).

My Pantoum challenge from the last entry is going surprisingly well, but I want more. Pantoum me up like wow. I’m not a critic, I’m not going to yell at you. Alternatively, give me a story to write, and I’ll do it. I’ll do it good. Write a fine ass story. With quite poor grammar.

Will someone buy me Cold Comfort Farm? I owned it years ago but never got round to reading it. Ahh, go on. I’ll make you food in January in return. You don’t even have to eat it.

I’m cold.*

* Physically and emotionally**.
** No, just kidding, I’m lovely.