It would be nice to be able to sleep for just four hours without feeling like I'm not just coming down with something but coming down with the mother of all things. I went to bed long past one waiting for the stollens, and woke before six, itchy and hot and cold and hungry. My eyes were going-abroad sore, early smarts and stress.
I'm sure I did fine in the summer, the odd night of five, four, three hours even, but the winter. I am most likely getting ill today. My nose is sneeezy my throat scratchy, and a long day ahead. I noticed the table isn't particularly perpendicular and amused myself with misreadings of articles called 'Choir' and 'I had 6,000 feet and survived'. Vogue is extolling the virtues of choirs?? How fucking cool am I! No, it's just very early for no reason and you're not quite with it yet love.
It's Christmas Eve tomorrow. I felt the last-minute panic on Oxford Street yesterday, overhearing shoppers talk about their plans in wool and pants. I haven't bought one gift. I nearly got one for her, but my conscience said no, I'm not getting dragged in this year, I'm very not! I came home and started the stollen ferment. We talked yesterday about the pleasure of cakes, I worried the receiver just sees straight through to the self indulgence. But surely that's a perfect gift, something reciprocal, a transaction contained within means.
Of or relating to a festival: parties are held and festive food is served. Cheerful and jovially celebratory: the somber atmosphere has given way to a festive mood.
I think I'm doing that pretty well. I would say I have felt the most festive I have ever felt this year. Completely void of material drive, submerged in singing and providing multiple baked goods to friends, family and colleagues. I really shouldn't feel like I have failed? Cakes and paintings. Surely they are worthier than wrong objects? I just hope I don't feel too guilty come the 25th...