A head like mince

And a merry Christmas to you all!

No doubt you are squinting at the photo attached. What you may, or may not, be able to see is the lovely gouge that Gert managed to gain in her bonce on Thursday - not that we know how she did it, but it is not classy. At all. In fact, I think it may be slightly common.

The last couple of weeks have been taken up with a heady concoction of birthdays, cafe work, university work, theatrical trips and avoiding Christmas. I have excelled at the last one beyond even my wildest dreams. In fact, I am writing this now and fretting about how the hell I am going to sort out at least getting some semblance of Christmas gifts to family/friends in the UK/Europe before February. I don't understand quite why this inability to organise myself has manifested; I swear I was fabulous at getting presents and cards all bought & wrapped when I lived in the UK, but now I seem to have lost that part of my brain function altogether (along with the ability to retain any information that doesn't directly relate to me). I need to sort this out and I promise I will try harder.

But enough about that.

The festive season is officially open and Jo & I managed to mark this by a evening of "entertainment" at Wellington's now sole women-only night (Wellington is seemingly incapable of sustaining a gay club/bar). It was in fact the second of these events, organised by some friends of ours, but we missed the first one because Jo fell asleep on the sofa at 9pm and I think I was engrossed in something terribly interesting on the TV. I digress, this time we not only turned up, but were by far the first people there...and "by far" I mean by an hour and a half. This did mean that we didn't have to pay to get in, but it also meant that by the time anyone else showed up we were ready to go home and eat half a box of chocolates (Cadbury's Continental - not very alluring, the creme de menthe one tastes like toothpaste). The late arrival clientele seemed to mostly consist of young people (ie anywhere between 12-24 years old, I can't tell anymore), a fair few of whom were TRASHED and stagger-y, which is strangely unattractive and yet mesmerising. And, my god, the amount of styling products these whippersnappers use makes us 80s survivors seem tame. Jo seemed to confuse and confound a fair few of them by actually looking and dressing like a woman - take that you wee Shane-a-likees! - whereas I, of course, mostly looked faintly unimpressed.

The music, again organised by a friend of ours, started off covering "classics/oldies", which terrifying included both "Total Eclipse of the Heart" and "I want to sex you up" by Color Me Badd (oh, how I wish I had never had to re-live that horror), but I managed to maintain my composure by leaning on the bar and drinking. We also managed to snag bar stools near the pool table so we could admire the youngsters take on the lesbian classic of "pool as way of chatting someone up without actually talking to them". It's surprisingly effective and completely mitigates any requirement for social interaction skills. Nice one ladies.

And now it is nearly Christmas Eve.

Have a very merry Christmas doing whatever makes you happy with whoever makes you happy - see you next week...