I've only gotten a few chapters in to it, but am really enjoying it. I can identify with the book, because it is written in a very similar way to my blog. And also the main character Clara, is how I imagine myself to be in ten years time. One of my favorite quotes from the book so far, that sums me up as much as it sums up Clara has to be...
"God, Christmas. It makes my brain melt. Because...I love it so much, and want it to be so lovely, so redemptive, so right. There is no point doing it craply, is there? I know people who do it craply, sitting there miserably with their sub-standard presents, and their overcooked titchy birds, but that's not how I roll. The idea of that Christmas makes me want to cry: I can't bear even to watch people to pretend to do it on television. It's not that I want it to be perfect in the Martha Stewart sense - I don't even own any matching crockery. I just want it to be... nice. Warm. Loving. Joyous. All those things. Christmassy."
But, even with these, what some people might considers to be drastic, measures, sometimes I do wish I could say "sod it", hit the snooze button on my alarm, get cuddled up next to my boyfriend and dig deeper under the covers and hibernate till the icy winter has thawed to the slightly more mild spring. But alas, I can't. So yawning and stretching, I leave Benn to snooze for at least another hour, and grab desperately for my glasses followed by my dressing gown. One of the worst things about being the first up in the morning is being the first person to put the heating on.
As the weeks have gone by my winter attire has grown considerably. At first it was just a warm hat to keep the morning chill off my ears and to protect my hair from the cool damp air. This then progressed to a scarf. Now gloves. And I am sure by next week I'll be in my thermals knickers and vest, sporting two pairs of tights and maybe even a secret hot water bottle tucked up my jumper
Once suitably wrapped up in my winter warmers, I begin the treacherous walk down an icy narrow path to the train station. Even my sturdy (but stylish) boots struggle to keep me in an upright position. After falling ungraciously the other morning,bruising my ego and my bum so badly I missed the train, I have taken to leaving ten minutes early for my train, so I can Bambi step across the ice. Not funny. Several times I have contemplated the effectiveness of stealing loads of salt sachets from the work canteen and trailing them behind me in a Hansel and Gretel manor on my way home from work. But somehow, I just don't think it would work.
In the morning my carriage often represents a snow storm. People are buried under snotty tissues or piles of paperwork that must be finished and filed before the 23rd of this month. Sniffles and sighs fill the air when people ask is this seat taken. Inevitably the only seats left are the ones that require you hold your breath so not to inhale the germs that the diseased are coughing and spluttering wantonly. My paranoia knows no bounds this time of year, and if you see a girl liberally applying anti-bacterial hand gel, it is probably me. I have too much to look forward to this holiday season to be getting ill!
Someone pass me the vitamin C! Quick!
Of course there is always one group of friends on the train, full of the festive spirit, for they are embarking on a wonderful day of Christmas shopping for their loved ones. I eye them enviously. Shopping for presents for my family and friends is one of my favorite past times. But I am not so easily deceived by their chilled out, relax and happy chatter, for I know that by the end of the day they will have become my worst nightmare.
You see, before the christmas rush, train journeys home from work used to be somewhat blissful. Plenty of space to spread out, a time to digest the days antics and unwind a little. Not now. Those shoppers I was so jealous of before have now become tipsy, ruthless women accompanied by a shocking array of weapons that they are not afraid to wield. I can't even count how much bodily damaged I have sustained in the last week. A heavy box to the ribs, a bottle of something alcoholic to the shins, a roll of wrapping paper to the eye!
Good god women, learn to control your shopping!
A few glasses of mulled wine at the Christmas Market to wrap up a hard days shopping, combined with aching feet and arms weighed down with bags is a frightful combination. No longer concerned with the state of the boxes, ladies barge past us regular workers, their elbows out, bags up, and a do not mess with me look. It would be enough to make a stampeding rhino think twice about battling them. They shove us out the way and battle each other down the isles, in a desperate attempt grab a coveted table seat to stack their trophies onAs I write this, I spy a lady and her companion who I graciously allowed in front of me to get on the train (I don't want a black eye for the Christmas party) are chatting wearily about their purchases, barely able to see each other over the mountain of goods. There isn't a seat spare next to either of them, for they too are piled high with bags from Selfridges, HMV, Next and Hollister. One woman has removed her shoes, her White socks stained black from her boots, and I am certain I can see some blood stains around the toes. Ouch. The other is doing an amazing impression of a nodding dog, someone get this lady some matchsticks for her eyes.
Ah well, I only have 7 days left of commuting left to go until next year. And while I know it won't happen, it really would lift all of our spirits if our trains looked more like this.
So Santa, if you are listening, all I want for Christmas is a lovely, merry, peaceful, happy, running on time, train service.
Merry Christmas xxxxx
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