I suppose once upon a time someone who didn't care for christmas was a novelty. I the great writer cannot even say the slightest interesting thing on this subject. I can't be bothered. My brother is similar, only more so, but he made a practice of drawing attention to his tude on this. I just suffer in silence. Thinking everyone knows I'm not suffering. What am I supposed to do, act like I'm on ecstacy? I'm not a Christian but even if I was I think I would still hate the fuss. I just hate fuss.
OK, enough of that. I have thought some interesting things this week actually but they've all disintegrated into nothingness over time. Doesn't matter. I am, er, going to switch credit cards, and, um, it's quite warm today but I'm going to take the dogs for quite a long walk this evening.
Last night we went to Francesca's house for 'drinks' and I had ginger beer and some actual beer. Conversation did not move into radical territory. It's funny how aware I am of people talking about themselves, mainly I think because I am jealous of them - I wish I was talking about myself. You know how it is, I'm sure you're the same. I really wanted to get Ada a copy of Pee Wee's Big Adventure but it seems to have been eviscerated (to use the word of another in a co-authored paper submitted yesterday) from the canon.