No it won’t.

It is a dark, cold, wet and dismal month. A month of forced joy and unwarranted expense. A month when those of us who are alone have the joy and excitement of people in relationships or who have families thrust upon us by the TV commercials and radio programmes that paint a picture of togetherness and love, sharing and happiness. More and more, Christmas serves as a reminder of my exclusion from the life that I’d hoped for; a life that I thought I’d had not such a long time ago.

Still though, I introduce a tree into my home and decorate it with lights that welcome me when I get in from work. It is a fragile connection to that life that I thought I was going to have, one that may yet still be waiting for me.

Pffft.

At least there’s sherry.

Walking back to muddiness
Everything is wet at the moment and I am engaged in an eternal battle against the gruftiness of my kitchen floor. The little dog thinks nothing of wading through muddy puddles and piles of dirty leaves while we’re out on our soggy walks. On returning home, he never wipes his feet on the doormat and loves nothing more than shaking off the excess filthy water from his little body before jumping on every chair in the living room.

People who suggest going for a walk as a leisure activity are quite clearly insane. They’d soon change their tune were they to ever acquire a dog and be forced out at least twice a day, rain or shine. I don’t resent the little dog, just the mess he creates, and having him is good thing for a person who would most likely not leave the house unless they absolutely had to, but I will less than politely decline the offer should anybody suggest going for a walk just for the sake of it.

Caught a light sneeze
My immune system better be up to scratch to deal with the afternoon I had. My sister sings in a community choir – of all the things! There was a shindig of a number of choirs, orchestras, bands and the like at the Tudor mansion that just so happens to be smack bang in the middle of Salford. I went along to show my support because Mother had to take care of my niece who had become ill through the night. It was not my plan to spend my Sunday afternoon being coughed and sneezed on by the diseased masses, or constantly kicked by a toddler who was sitting next to me on the knee of his mother.

But I sat amongst the crowd and listened politely. There was the youth choir, followed by some saxophones – both excellent. Then, controversially, a primary school orchestra had muscled in on the event uninvited and they spent seven minutes torturing us with renditions of fuck knows what played on instruments that were all out of tune. Well done, Miss, you pushy twat! There was a brass band that played Mars from The Planets; it’s quite threatening enough as it is being the in heart of Greater Manchester’s answer to District 13 without having a terrifying soundtrack as accompaniment. They were OK though, in a sort of weird out of tune way that would have been quite good if it was intentional. Flutes. Recorders. Hey, nonny nonny, let’s get our Tudor thing on, and finally, the Salford Community Choir, which was very good and mercifully prompt at finishing in time for me to escape just before the football crowd emerged from the nearby Theatre of Shit.

I called in to my sister’s house on my way home. The little one was lying under a blanket on the sofa looking quite dreadful while Mum looked after her. I stayed just in time for my niece to throw up next to me. The last time I had a child with sickness bug do this, I succumbed myself two days later and what followed was the most dreadful day and half of aches, pains, shivers and vomit. Needless to say, I’ll spend the next two days monitoring all my physiological signs for any hint of being struck down myself. If I had my way, infectious diseases would be like that runic spell in “The Night of the Demon”, whereby, if you get exposed to an infectious agent but manage to pass it on to somebody else before the symptoms show, you don’t get ill yourself. It’s in the trees… it’s coming!