Jingle bells, Santa smells

I have this suspicion that by the time Christmas actually arrives I may be completely sick of it. But you would be too if you had to endure 9 hours of Christmas music every day at work. And you know what... I reckon the punters feel the same. I mean, even though there are certain carols that strike an emotional chord with me based on my childhood experiences... even if the actual details of my religious alignment have skewed a bit since then... if I have to listen to cheesy Christmas 'pop' any more I may scream. God forbid that they dust off that Boney M album!

Work has been better of late. It was never bad really, just difficult, as big adjustments often are. Working in management you're expected to have all the answers, all the time, and be able to deal with whatever a work day throws at you. Those expectations are pretty hard to meet when you're still getting to grips with the basics of the role. Still, I'm getting there. I think I was a bit wary because I had this idea that, because I'd come from the same role at a different location, my direct boss expected me to be able to just jump right in a handle everything... which so did not happen. Then again, a 2 week period of adjstment isn't too long methinks.

Just the other day we were hosting a fund raising event, which ended up being composed entirely of toffs. In my experience to date I have found 'The Toff' to be a demographic unique to the UK. To qualify you have to speak (seriously and without laughing) in that cliched upperclass English accent, wear nondescript brown trousers, a shirt with a button down collar (no tie mind!), and over that a round-neck jersey, which has to be of a solid, not too garish, colour. No patterns allowed! To top the look off you need to sport a floppy Hugh Grant (the old Hugh that is) hairstyle. A room full of them is enough to make milk come out your nose.

Last night coda and I decided to go see what Covent Garden had to offer on a Friday night. So after a tube trip right across to the city to see Tam before hand, because I said I would, we found ourselves wandering around looking for a decent bar. No luck really. There were loads of bars, but not along the lines of what I was looking for really. We ended up at the Long Island Ice Tea bar (or something) and under the distinct impression that the people there had been drinking for far longer than we had. Still, it was a night out, and an experience to boot. And we did learn one important lesson: if you're staying out late have a plan on how you're going to get home. Paying £25 taxi fare is not quite as funny as you sitting there laughing at me might think.

Anyways, I'm off.

Love your bum.