Jeremy Dennis is Jeremy Day (cleanskies) wrote,
Jeremy Dennis is Jeremy Day

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Io fucking saturnalia

Christmas rattles on apace. A surreally empty post-office saw off enough parcels I need not commit hari-kari with a letter-opener for being crap and out of touch with everyone. That said, don't expect a card or anything. What do you think I am, organised?

Alternating between feeling sullen and sulky and having a good-good time. The former seems to be good for chores, though. Friday went badly, and I ended up scooting away from friends' work's cocktails where I felt decidely unwelcome to see Lemony Snicket. Which had its moments but won't altogether please fans of the book, or anyone else, I don't think. Lovely clothes, though, and one could quite see why Jim Carrey was inspired to hug and, on occasion, lick the sets.

Later I watched the Gardener's World Christmas Special. Monty Don bought Chris Beardshaw a double-headed watering can; he teamed up with Rachel de Thame to get Monty several tonnes of manure. With a bow on top. Oooh, the festivity.

Saturday went better. We sold monstrous amounts of goats at the Oxfam bookshop, as well as the rather nice early impression Tolkiens that had taken manager-Lily bloody hours to get clean and ready to sell. And Dickens. Lots of Dickens.

Thence directly to cloudhigh's for champagne and chatter, where I learnt (among other things) that elderly greyhounds and cream carpets don't mix, that inviting a childrens' choir along to your charity concert vastly improves the amount of money you raise, and that the whole goats and chickens thing has been roughly twice as successful as Oxfam hoped it would be, leading to a rather festive "yay, we finally did something people liked," atmosphere there. Here's hoping it isn't just a brief fashion-blip.

Champagne fortified, I headed off to Your Song, a sort of Oxford music-scene party thing. Usually I feel a bit out-of-place there but this time I ran straight into the divine Joella and had a brilliant time. And I managed to get rid of my feather boa (cheers, concourse). It's a covers night; highlights included Toxic in the style of Ash, 9 to 5 in the style of Elton John, and So you'd like to go to the show (or whatever it's called -- Pink Floyd) glam-rock style. Went home too early but channelled all that not-danced-enough energy into housework while listening through the Blues for Godzilla tape andypop sent me with his song for me. Tidy house! Egotistical thrill! Yay!

Sunday was actually sunny so we went for a walk and I used up a film while we talked about comics and we had roast at the Prince of Wales. Horseradish is clearly my condiment of the moment. I wonder if it's possible to eat too much?

Then I wrapped and wrapped and wrapped some more. Watched A Midsummer Nights Dream (the one that has mudwrestling, Callista Flockhart nude, and Rupert Everett as the king of the fairies), and carried on wrapping, cursing my extended and scattered family. At the end of it, I felt the need to wind down by listening to Radiohead, drinking whisky and resizing pictures of lichen and moss.

Well, each to their own, and that's me to mine. What do you do to relax?

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