I've just returned home to the most appalling smell. It's not corpses or distressed lavatories - something far worse: gloss paint. It appears that in the short time I was away, the downstairs neighbours have decorated - decorated with the cheapest, most noxious gloss paint in existence. If I pass out as I write this, do not be surprised - It's not like I'm even getting high off it.
Why have they done this? The premises are rented, so they're not even allowed to deface its beigeness. Perhaps they have actually done it to mask the smell of corpses - they did seem to be rowing on Christmas night. I think I'd prefer this to the idea that they had endured the soul-destroying shop-shutness of Christmas Day, praying for the wondrous moment of Boxing Day morning when they could hit the Homebase sale, colour charts in hand, to acquire the toxic tones to reheat their love nest. Whichever explanation is the true one, if they are down there, they are almost certainly dead - another festive tragedy in this anonymous city.
I was here on Christmas Day by the way - completely alone and quite happy. The solitariness was more or less self-inflicted as I'd had tentative plans to meet others in a similar position to me. When push came to shove, we couldn't quite be arsed to walk down the road to exchange yuletide greetings.
I'm finished with religion anyway - sod 'em all. I tried to get Ava into a C of E primary - for the usual selfish reasons - but due to very real marital turbulence, which might actually have benefited from some pastoral guidance, was unable to affect the necessary weekly enlightenment in the pews. Just as well in fact, as her heathen primary school is superb - although for some reason, she thinks Jesus is buried in Austria, and claims to have seen his gravestone.
My Tony Hancock-style day was spoilt somewhat by the termination of Soul Brother Number One. I'd wanted to sing Eleanor Rigby all day and darn socks, but I couldn't help breaking into I Feel Good, then throwing a cloak over myself.
Before you tire of my moaning, or attempt to draw me to your humane breast, Boxing Day was a blast. Picked Ave the Rave up from her Mama and did Christmas properly. Had an argument with my sister, wore a funny hat and had a revelation: toys are a waste of time. Children want whoopee cushions - and so do I.
