Fuck it.

Threw up in a sink last night and then had a horrendous row with my brother whilst in the company of those who actually call black people "blacks."

Jesus would be proud.

Welcome home?

This is why I left Gloucester and live in London.

My head hurts.

My sister-in-law was drinking water with pieces of swede in it at 5am.

Helsy and I woke up with matching vile fevers this morning. After 9 hours of sneezing and shivering in our respective offices we decided that there was only one way to remedy this. A hefty shot of lithuanian brandy and a meal which closely resembles a 1970's health authority advert for good nutrition.

Now off to curl up together and watch Shameless series 2 in bed whilst bickering companiably .

He is a true hero of our times & a direct descendant of the beserkrs of which I'm so fond.

The Sargeant just emailed me this after a long phone conversation in which one of the discussion topics was my forthcoming pilgrimage to Scotland.

Once again I am so excited I could eat my own arm.

Dougaldutch has also recently texted me a picture of the Easter Road street sign. Between them, they certainly know how to get their Captain going...I cannae fuckin wait Hen.

It was a beautifully shambolic festive grotto in the House of Rats last night. 11 rats of past, present and honorary status gathered for early Christmas dinner including turkey, trout, pigs-in-blankets and stuffing.

Preparation and consumption of said meal soon descended into chaos and the kitchen ended up trashed with cracker remnants, squashed sprouts & lounging rats all over the floor…..

There was affection, wit and flirtation in abundance. We had speeches, champagne and raspberry cheesecake. It was, in short, a perfect Christmas meal.

Last night/this morning Hels and I found joy in the most surprising places:

- Standing on the front doorstep, smoking and joining in with carol singers under the orangey-glow of the streetlamps whilst local urchins rummage through the bins. Ah, Christmas.

- Companiable consumption of the Perfect Boiled Egg with toast and marmite. Perhaps only a once or twice in a lifetime experience, the importance of this should not be underestimated.

- Cathartic post-funeral cleaning of the house whilst listening to the Stones.

- Random posh, sexy boys emerging bleary eyed and smelling of vodka from the snug whilst we get ready for work in the morning. What an unexpected treat.

I love the House of Rats so much.

I have just written about fifteen drafts trying to describe Lee's funeral and simply can't.

It went something like this....

Sherry, coffee, cigarettes, hearse, procession, Dylan, welcome by Dashiel, Diamond Dogs, speeches, tears, snot, tears, laughter, poetry by Lee - "Fear of Fluids", Roger McGough read by Boudicca, shamanic journey, tears, snot, tears, laughter, tears, Jack White, into the brightness outside, hugs, cigarettes,on to the wake, mulled wine, grandparents, shoe-swapping, ham, cheese, soup, cigarettes, off home, dog's dead too, fuck, shock, brandy, tears, hysterical laughter, hasty grave digging, spliffs, hugs, train to London.

One thing I must say is there was a lot of love in that room and I am so proud of Boo, Dash and Jan....They have done amazingly.

This girl is tentative no more regarding anything turtlesque…the weekend was fantastic and a most wonderful time was had by all. Too wonderful, in fact, to detail on this blog. Some things should be kept private.

Over and out to moon around, smile at random strangers and almost get mown down whilst crossing the road due to the inability to focus on anything but blissful memories & shag flashbacks….

A dark and oppressive cloud hangs over the House of Rats. It’s so palpable that it’s affecting my sleep, ensuring that I roll in to work tetchy, gloomy and gritty eyed.

I have also just taken thirty-five fucking minutes in Sainsbury’s choosing between two brands of whisky. That is in no way a good sign.

Last weekend, aside from the obvious joys of Decompression (pictorially represented below) we had a birth, a death and a horrendous break-up in our immediate circle.

RIP - Paul Lee Foxall – witty existentialist and fucking good dad.

So then, tears are quite frequent and I have some apprehension too, about this weekend coming…..

Am travelling 200 miles to stay from Friday to Monday in the home of a beautiful feathercut I have only met once under chemically induced circumstances (although for 18 hours – see circus party entry) and have not spoken to except via text to in the three weeks since. Tentative? Yes. A weekend is a long time.