The nice thing about being a freelance is the merciful lack of Christmas Parties, the staggering shortage of late night cabs home, the wonderful dirth of let's-go-on-somewhere. It's been a cheap week, and god knows, I need one of those (why do personal finances, no matter how rosy, suddenly look scary in December?).
Last night I decided I was going to go out. It would be a treat. I'd had a day of cat-sitting which had not gone particularly well. In my head my cat would meet Lee's kitten and there'd be, I dunno, maybe they'd share food, or play cards.... but instead there was screaming and claws and hissing. The upside is discovering that, for a fat girl, my cat sure can run and fight. In some ways it was just like a Christmas party - you know, when the over-jolly PA suddenly realises someone is trying to steal her cab and goes for the offender, high heels in one hand, bottle of stolen chardonnay in the other.
Anyway, it was a cold evening and I was full of pastry and precisely zero portions of fresh fruit or vegetable. So I decided to go out. Just anywhere - after all, it's a Thursday, surely there's stuff to do in London on a Thursday? I checked - there was pretty much nothing on apart from a screening of 3D Avatar at the Camden Odeon and Boyz Magazine's pick-of-the-day which was the Christmas Party at The Hoist (mistletoe in unusual places). So, I decided I'd go to Islington for a drink.
And then I looked out of the window. It was snowing. Gordon Brown Snow (all the cold, none of the charm). So I put some coal on the fire, opened a bottle of wine, and watched Blakes 7. It was dreadful, but kind of marvellous.
But tonight. Oh yes, tonight I shall try, oh so very hard, to leave the flat.