Christmas Post

Christmas just wouldn’t be Christmas if popular high street book retailers who shall remain nameless didn’t try to sabotage their employees’ celebrations of it, am I right? Course I am.

Captain Tact has worked for The Shop That Must Not Be Named for just over three years. He is not allowed to apply for time off during December, because this is a busy period and all hands are required on deck for festive scrubbing; even though they take on an army of Christmas temps every year to manage the soapy chaos. People may not read anymore, but apparently this doesn’t stop ‘em buying shedloads* of books.

On Boxing Day.

The captain has been rota-ed on for the 26th every year he’s been there, actually, but through skill and determination has generally managed to affect a switcheroo. This time, his luck has run out. Who is rushing out to retail parks on the outskirts of cities to buy books on Boxing Day, you might ask. Did they not get a load of things to read under the tree only yesterday? I do not have an answer to this; ask me on December 26. Except don’t, because I’ll be curled up with a blanket and a book and Harry Potter 12: Myrtle’s Revenge or whatever other films they bung on.

BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT BOXING DAY IS FOR.

Yes, I realise technically the New Year sales begin on Boxing Day. But I’ve been, and do you know what? They suck.

What are these amazing deals that people camp outside to nab? A pair of gold lamé jeans a size too small but it’s worth it ‘cause there’s £20 off! A new tent, even though you detest camping because you never know and this one has £35 off! Flesh coloured spike heels that will tear your feet to shrebbons, but will go with everything**!!

You know where else you can pay less for shit you don’t need or want? The internet. In the comfort of your own home, from behind a third tin of chocolate. People that are throwing themselves out into the cold instead of remaining with their loved ones and a bottle of gin are freakin’ idiots.

Now, some of those people will claim they have to get out of the house on the 26th because their relations are doing their head in. Apparently a child with a chocolate Santa stuck up its nose and an elderly aunt who smells a bit cabbagey are much more annoying than hordes of strangers deploying tactical use of the elbow as they grab for the last polyester flapper dress on the sale rail before you.

The festive cliché that families are horrible does not apply to us. Captain Tact’s dad is so adamant we don’t spend Christmas alone in our so-cold-it-makes-me-want-to-hurt-people flat that he has volunteered to do early Christmas lunch, then drive us back across the frozen wastes between Ayrshire and Edinburgh on the afternoon of the 25th so he can make this stupid shift. Meanwhile my sister, distraught at the notion of me spending Boxing Day alone with my thoughts, plans to drive down from Perthshire to whisk me into the bosom of my relations. Our carbon footprint is going to be monstrous, and all because some Scrooge in an office somewhere can’t bear the thought of missing out on two whole days of selling overpriced books to idiots.

Still, as I remember, famous book lover Jo March once threw herself onto the hearth and intoned ‘Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents’; then the next day she visited the January sales at Fort Kinnaird and indulged in retail therapy till her ears bled.

The Book Shop That Must Not Be Named is clearly doing something right.


*some.
**nothing.

Glad Game - Waking Up When You Don't Have To

On Saturday, I set my alarm for 10:30am.

For no very good reason, I proceeded to wake up at 8.34am, as alert as a child on Christmas morn. And in spite of really needing to catch up on missed zee’s (as Sesame Street might call them), I couldn’t get back to sleep.

I lay there, eyes shut, trying to remember what I had been dreaming about, to no avail. Not that that would have helped, necessarily – the last dream I remember involved my dad having an in-depth conversation with his pet rabbit about why if wouldn’t get out of its hutch. I don’t think my dad has ever had a pet rabbit, much less an agoraphobic one.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” Captain Tact enquired, aware that the amber nectar is often as good a remedy as any to my ills.

“No,” I wailed, prostrating myself a melodramatically amongst the covers as was the style at the time, “I’m going to try and go back to sleep.”

About ten minutes later, I sheepishly went through and made my own.

Waking up before the alarm goes leaves me feeling morally and spiritually bereft. How can you possibly enjoy anything at all if you haven’t had at least 8 hours in bed?!

Lately I’ve only been getting 6 or 7 hours a night during the week due to all the writing. This is OK up to a point, but means that a lie-in at the weekend is imperative for my mental wellbeing. Unfortunately that isn’t always possible due to prior engagements, and adding self-sabotage to the mix is not the plan I had.

It annoyed me particularly on this occasion because I knew I wasn’t going to be back in bed for any length of time for another 36 hours. I had Stuff To Do during the day, and was spending the evening at the Cameo Night of Horror; scheduled to run from 11pm on Saturday till about 8am Sunday morning. Then I was going over to Fife for a picnic with my family.

I was preemptively tired by the prospect, and very annoyed with my body for its nonsense.

The positive side, of course, was that I got a couple of thousand words done for book 4 of 12 Books in 12 Months that I otherwise might not have managed. I must grudgingly concede that it can be quite a good feeling to randomly gain two hours to get on with stuff. There again, those two hours might’ve come in handy during Terror at the Opera, a film by turns confusing, pretentious, and dull; but impossible to sleep through because the soundtrack is so loud it makes your ear canals hurt.

Still, concentrating on the glad aspect – no sleep = more words. Hooray!

Kid Canaveral's Christmas Baubles

I wrote a guest post for the Guardian - a review of Kid Canaveral's Christmas Baubles. In lieu of anything new here today, you should read it, here.

The Tuesday Play

A modern day soap opera. I imagine this reflects the experience of a lot of other people.

13 Dec 2010 – I order a thing from the internet on the proviso it’ll get to Edinburgh for December 16^th

15 Dec 2010 – get an email saying the thing has been picked up at the other end by HDNL 24 hour delivery

15 Dec 2010 – Tracker says “14:19 - the parcel has been collected.”

15 Dec 2010 – Tracker says “15:02 - the parcel has been despatched from depot”

16 Dec 2010 –Tracker says “00:01 - The parcel has been sorted at our hub”

17 Dec 2010 – Snowmageddon has hit England and Citylink has suspended deliveries to Scotland. Crap. Although I've not heard anything about HDNL, maybe they're still managing?

21 Dec 2010 – Tracker says “07:34 - The parcel has been received into depot”

23 Dec 2010 – Tracker says “12:49 - The parcel is in the Depot”

25 Dec 2010 – Christmas happens. My dad does not get his present.

29 Dec 2010 – Tracker says “06:35 - The parcel has been loaded on to the drivers van”

29 Dec 2010 – I stay home all day waiting for the parcel.

29 Dec 2010 – Tracker says “14:51 – the parcel is in the Depot.”

29 Dec 2010 – I try to ring HDNL around 16:00. The system demands I type in the handy fifty-digit code on the calling card they haven’t left me.

4 Jan 2011 – 11:30 I phone the people from whom I originally ordered the thing to see if they are allowed to talk to HDNL, since I still haven’t had a card.

4 Jan 2011 – 11:35 Whist waiting for the system to load, they mention that the snow was an issue.

4 Jan 2011 – 11:36 I mention that I’ve cut them almost a month’s slack because of the snow and the holidays, for something I was meant to get within 24 hours.

4 Jan 2011 – 11:40 She finally manages to get into the system, to tell me that they tried to deliver on the 29^th but there was “no access to the property.”

4 Jan 2011 – 11:41 I am unimpressed, and tell her so, because I know what that means. Like all couriers, they've come along the road, seen someone else on the single yellow outside the flat, and fucked off. There are plenty places to stop, it's just they can't be arsed cause it'll involve walking / possible traffic warden chat. If I had my way, everyone would be forced to use the Royal Mail, who at least make it as far as the front door before failing to get the right buzzer.

4 Jan 2011 – 11:43 She says she will put a note through of the other places I have listed where they could park. This is sweet, but it won’t achieve anything.

*UPDATE*

5 Jan 2011 – 11:45 Tracker still on the message from the 29^th ; parcel in Depot. Hate to say I told you so, etc. Sorry, Dad.

Tis The Season

Merry Christmas Eve!

I celebrated the season by writing a guest post on somebody else's blog. HA.

It can be read here, and you should read the rest of the site too because it's interesting and well written and frankly, there isn't enough of that on the internet.

In other news, innocently turning around to see this lurking under a pile of clothes is one of the perils of living with a Doctor Who fan:

Shat me right up.

A Missive Of The Brief Kind

It being Christmas, I have lots on, as I'm sure you do too. As a result this site may experience a lack of blogging for a few days. However, you can read a guest post by me on gossip site Hecklerspray HERE to while away the time instead. Or perhaps you'd prefer to read an interview I did with a local writer for The Edinburgh Reporter? That's here. Knock yourselves out. But in a festive way.

Twelve More Big Pyjama Sleeps

Today, myself and my learned sister did some Christmas shopping at Fort Kinnaird. It is a wonderous place, containing all the shops you might go to in town, but larger and closer together. Plus there's a Thornton's Cafe, where the seats are made from chocolate and the coffee is made from stardust.

As if that wasn't fictional enough, I am happy to announce that thanks to the ugly but brilliant piece of architectural planning that is the Fort, I have finally acquired a halogen heater for to set myself and Captain Tact on fire when we least expect it. Or alternatively to warm up our room. Ha. This happenstance fills me with the lukewarm glow of mild optimism that I can spend some time in there without wrapping up like Captain Oates. I'll let you know how that pans out. Unless I forget.

This gem of Korean workmanship (sadly the box doesn't specify which one) was not the only treasure in the big Poundstretcher though, oh dear me no. There was also this little fella.



See how his eyes flash with a desperation for your love that is borderline psychotic? This is going to be presented to some poor child in less than a fortnight, and they're going to have to pretend like it doesn't make them want to cry. If that's not a case for calling in the NSPCC I don't know what is.