(It's going to be a long week chums, I've discovered how to put words and borders on pictures, the old dog is jumping hoops like a seasoned circus dog in a spangled topper & pink tutu.)
Well the dark nights have well and truly closed in.
So much so that living at 55 degrees north, on one particularly sombre dark day last week I felt like a protagonist in an Edgar Allen Poe short story where the walls were closing in and a murder of crows were arguing over which condiments to slather me in for supper that night. Respite came by running around the house with a box of matches lighting every single candle I could source.
It was either throwing myself from the roof while shouting "I am a Golden God" or finding reasons to be cheerful. My desire to see Santa kicked in the latter.
Here is what has kept me going.
Hot buttered crumpets; snuggly bug cashmere wraps, fantasy party dressing, please see red Tibi skirt below which I have been staring at non-stop for three weeks, it reminds me of "the one that got away." Both mum and hubs loathed that red dress on me.
Oh and I tasted eggnog for the first time last week. You lot are rotters. Why didn't any of you tell me about this? I now challenge the strongest of you to try and prise my sink plunger lips from the egg nog teat.
This is my Advent candle, I light it on December 1st and burn it for one hour every night till Christmas Day.
pinterest - so far I've only tasted the non- alcoholic version but I'm dreaming big.
I am often to be found mooching around our nation's galleries on the weekends and last week at the National Portrait Gallery one painting drew me in like a beacon. I found myself standing completely absorbed in front of Ken Currie's Three Oncologists; a harrowing yet all enveloping and life inspiring work depicting three bloodied, rheumy eyed oncologists soaked in the spectre of death and exhausted by the fight. I couldn't move. I was utterly transfixed. This is the Aristotelian cathartic power of art. For the rest of the day I just couldn't shake its grasp.
Sometimes we have to catch death's eye to truly appreciate life.
Three Oncologists, Ken Currie
And now, by popular demand, The Snowball Cocktail, probably
the first waltz with Madame Alcohol we Brits have.
Of course in our house the ratio was always two parts Advocaat to two parts lemonade, Aunt Mame would approve.
It's sickly, don't say I didn't warn you.