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Christmas has this in common with Artweeks, Carnival, and Glastonbury; it's a place in time you can routinely see stuff you wouldn't expect. Like half a dozen Santas crossing the road, or a fifty-foot crane ablaze with lights. Or a rabbi in a cherry-picker.

Headline from the Oxford Mail -- elderly couple conned by tarmac cowboys. What, real cowboys? Made of real tarmac? I didn't read the story. It would only have been a disappointment.

Got my work christmas card done and sent out and the home page decorated. Makes a change from working for the charities, working here. Here, flippant and tasteless is praised -- it appeals to young people. So they say.

Went back to the doctor for more pills. I'd got the student doctor, so it wasn't especially enlightening, except that she told me if I went up to taking two pills a week, I should look at preventative treatment, using those yummy selective Seratonin uptake inhibiters they love to use for everything head-born nowadays. Something about my hostile stare must have alerted her to how happy I felt about that, so she spent a little while explaining that this SSI only acted on blood-flow in the brain, and didn't have "any of the other effects associated with them". Right. I bet they still list "unusual thoughts" among their side effects. Garg. I think not. One interesting insight though (as often when explaining symptoms to a doctor) described a "sudden burst of stress" as part of my migraine recipe, found myself wondering -- is that a cause or effect?

Plovers and buzzards, rabbits and snow-pockets, hornet-loud motorcyclist and Ken Dodd's dad's dog's dead. Writing on the bus doesn't make me feel travel-sick, but I end up with a head like a pocket of loose change, everything I saw as I lifted my eyes between sentences clattering between my ears.

****

Later. The day is done. Returning again, river-noise of Japanese girls discussing the day's shopping. I wonder, if I understood Japanese, would I find her annoying? Probably not. She has a lovely voice. I'm writing, and I'm looking into lit windows. The rooms are full of pot-plants, christmas trees, ornaments, televisions, pictures, tables, chairs, but no people, a parade of lit stage sets, waiting for actors. This disappoints me -- it's the people I want to see. I've never seen anyone having sex through a lit window, even though it happens all the time in the movies.

Actually, I'm lying, there were people. There was a boy sat alone on his bed, three people on a sofa, a couple watching television, a woman sat at a large desk, and a person stood alone in a bright doorway, staring out into the night.

So -- sisters visited (except George. I'll see her oh, sometime.) presents distributed, nephew flung repeatedly at the ceiling. Mulled wine drunk, clothes admired, cheese and pinapple on sticks eaten, sisters congratulated on size of diamond/recent marriage/getting her family to the party. See the lesbian aunty! See her play!

I felt unclassifiable and ugly. And like I'd had enough both of giving and receiving.