It’s December the first. This means that everyone is now in Christmas mode. Trees are up everywhere. Tinsel is growing out of walls. Fake snow covers windows. Drunken students and office workers suddenly wear Santa hats all the time. Office parties full of people who hate each other sit joylessness looking at each other with the sort of fake bonhomie that makes Saturday night TV programmes like X Factor seem sincere.
Christmas for me in recent years is at best two weeks off work, and the ability to go out drinking mid-week as I try to cram a load in while it’s quiet when all the students fuck off home for a few weeks, and most people sit around family homes watching Bond films and asking why Tom Baker isn’t Doctor Who anymore. This year I’ll be glad to see the back of what has been on the whole, a fucking appalling 2013, so all I need to do is scrape through the next three weeks and then I’m off for a fortnight of drinking, eating but mainly reflection and planning as I work out what to do next.
Then I saw the horror of the helicopter crash back home in Glasgow on the Clutha pub back home, and apart from hoping everyone was fine, I saw the reaction of Glaswegians coming together to help each other and the city. As much as I love Bristol, that sense of community wouldn’t happen here, or at least it wouldn’t happen on the same scale. It’s made me realise again how much I miss Glasgow, and how much I would like to head home, but then again I don’t think I’ve exhausted Bristol yet, though it may be exhausting me!
So as we enter this festive season, I’m going to work out just what I want to do when I grow up. Failing that I’m going to sit around, drinking and shoving turkey into my face while sobbing quietly into my beard as 2013 hopefully quietly fucks off and a more optimistic and thrusting 2014 comes into town, throws an arm around my shoulders and tells me ‘it’s alright mate, I’ll sort you out’ before we get run over by a bus.