Ten Minutes to Midnight

And so it ends. The worst year of my adult life is drawing to a close.

I received a Christmas card the other day, and written inside it was a simple message, hoping that next year is altogether better for me than this one has been. And I frowned, reading it, and pursed my lips, because this year has been a killer.

If you know me, you probably know how bad this year has been, in pretty much every aspect of my life. I won't go into details, because much of what hurt most is very personal, and as for the rest, well, let's just say that that game isn't over yet, and while justice remains to be done it's best to remain silent; the truth can out afterwards.

I don't have many regrets, as most of the things that went to Hell had never been in my control, but I regret hurting someone I loved very much, and I regret missing a wedding in the summer, and most of all I regret saying nothing when I should have said something, which isn't something I get to say all that often. And I guess most of all I'm going to miss Paul and Kathleen.

But yeah, I'm glad it's over. Let's leave it at that for now.

But the thing is, and I really can't stress this enough, if this year plunged me into darkness, it wasn't a darkness without candles, and there were a host of them.

Just taking the most obvious examples, and using codenames where convention dictates: Louise, the Kittybrewster, Laura, Nicola, Rose, NMRBoy, Z, the greatest Senior Student of them all, the Ginger Beast, Herself, Jeff Tutor, the Angel, Bertie, the Guard, Barry, the Priest, David, the Chief, the Supervisor, the Secretary, the Detective, Dave, Madam, the Doctor, the Master, the Author, the Director, the Producer, the Solicitors, the 126, Anna, Emma, Pavel, Sam, Gareth and Alex, Jess, Joanne, Betty, Kathryn, Birgitta, Renate, Lucy and Dara, Claire and Anthony, Alison, Heinrich, Amy, Beth, Bev the Lege, Ashley, Jen, Hannah, Lucy, Fliss, Claire, Holly, Hayley, Kaye, Mr and Mrs Spice, Technically Rachel and the Cheesemonger, Mr Kitchentable, L.A.F.F., Becktoria and Andrew, Katherine and Rob, Natalie, Edel, Louise, Martin, Tom, Siobhan, Sonya, Sasha, Laura, Blaithin, Satu, Steve, Doug and Lara, Josh and Clare, Denise, Rachel, Bronagh, Claire, Edward, Rob, Seb, Kevina, Mauraid, Bernard, Seb, Helen, Helen, Mr Kan, Sandra, Ruth, Ed, Rachel, Kieron, Sharon, Alan, Colum, and all the Clan, of course, especially Clare's brigade, and Ivor.

And that's by no means all of those who've shone out this year. I owe you all. You're all magnificent.

When you get down to it, I'm incredibly lucky, like that merry fiddler I've told youse about in the past, I guess.

And there were some great moments, too. Some of them, well, are guessable enough, and are included in my epic farewell to Manchester halls, if you know where to look, but there were others too. That engagement a few days ago, for starters, not to mention those in the summer and the autumn, both of which still have me smiling... News of Finn, of Ariane, and of Muireann... Meeting Amelia... Other babies on the way too, two in February and one in March that I know of... Seeing all my nephews and nieces in one room... Gently trundling to London on the Megabus, whether to buy embarrassingly loud boots or to to spend a day with Louise... Hearing of Laura and Rose's heroics... Watching an eight months' pregnant woman make Van Morrison's 'Crazy Love' sound even better than he ever did... 'Cyrano De Bergerac'... Seeing the Turners for my first time in the National Gallery... AJ's first goal for Everton... Brighton, and thereabouts... Liam on the webcam the other day... It goes on, really.

Even today's been nice too, in a cosily unspectacular way. I went into town this afternoon, picking up a memory stick so I can actually shift my work about properly. Tea then, and the best pint all year - in Mulligan's, predictably - where I sat and read in comfortable silence. On then to admire the huge Italian crib in the Pro-Cathedral, and then mass. And then a five mile walk home through blustering wind and spattering rain, just because I could.

I guess as the worst year of my adult life goes, it's not been that bad. I may have learned how to hate, but I've learned a lot of other things besides.

Bring on 2007. And a Happy New Year to you, both readers.

Why do we fall?

So, the brother sounds a bit miffed. Having subjected himself to a rigorous personal examination, in the clear hope of finding himself a closet Bruce Wayne, he discovered that were he a superhero he'd almost certainly be Mr Tony Stark, better known as 'Iron man'. What do you mean you haven't heard of him? Think of Timothy Dalton with a pencil moustache, and then encase him in a silly metal costume. There. Better?

Intrigued by my elder's failure*, I took the challenge myself. And there are some fine questions there. 'Do you like to wear a cape?' for example, or 'do you like redheads?' An emphatic yes on both counts, of course.

And the result? Yes, as all my former tutees in Manchester would surely already know, I'm Batman.

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* I say 'failure', but he takes solace in being a genius. Apparently.

Stranger in a Strange Land

And yet again more good news. It seems another baby is on the horizon. Congratulations to the wonderful parents-to-be. It'll be a fierce lucky child, that's all I can say. This year is definitely ending rather better than the general run of play.

I approve of all this, and yet sitting amongst my people earlier today, surrounded by married couples, home-owners, bearers of children, earners of salaries, and submitters of theses, I felt decidedly left out. Things will have to change very soon. This job needs finishing, and a new start is required. Roll on September, so. I have a feeling that 2007 is going to be a very eventful year.

Last night was excessive, I'm afraid. Too many bars, frankly -- The Bank, The Mint, 4 Dame Lame, and Leggs of all places -- and some poor taxi strategy on the way home. It was after half five that I crept into Chez Gregoire. Leeson Street Bridge is apparently the spot to work from, which I hadn't realised. One to bear in mind for next time, I guess. Whenever that may be.

God knows. He tends to, after all. Comes with the territory.

Is Dave such a bad name, really?

I'm off shortly, catching up and similarly festive stuff. In the meantime, another smidge of good news.

My talented blogging grandfather, Mr Kitchentable, having evidently lost inspiration at present -- a loss, it has to be said -- he has dug out his fine tale of 'The Dog Who Hated His Name' and begun posting it again over at his blog. He started yesterday. It's worth following, trust me. I've read it in the flesh, as it were. I reckon it's definitely publishable, too.

Still, have a read, and judge for yourselves.

Home, Sweet Home

Despite all my fears, the Chelmsford Christmas experiment worked a treat, with the absolute highpoint being the rather unorthodox Christmas cracker opened by sister the elder yesterday evening.

Mind, the whole webcam malarkey and my acquisition of a dinner jacket wouldn't be all that far behind. God alone knows when I'll get a chance to wear said outfit, mind, what with my hall days being left behind me. So, if any of you charming frauleins need a dapper escort for any balls in Dublin or Manchester, just let me know.

Dave did a fine job looking after the place in our absence, though picking up the sister at the airport earlier it seems there was some Dougal and Ted banter.

-- Wouldn't it be funny, he remarked, if, after me looking after the place for the last few days, doing lights and curtains and all that stuff, the house got broken into while I was picking you up at the airport?

-- No, David, she said, it wouldn't.

Which was exactly what I said when he said it to me on the phone just a few minutes ago.

Unfortunately, Liam couldn't be with us today...

... but don't worry, we managed to set up a weblink. Thank God for Skype, that's all I can say. Between Skype, and headsets, and microphones, and cameras, well, we all got a tour of the Brother's living room, and he got to watch us all making fools of ourselves in the elder sister's living room. Some moreso than others, it has to be said.

And I got to chat to my nephew, which was nice and all too rare, and I even saw the infamous Sally, who seemed not remotely phased by her transatlantic televisual appearance.

And having said goodbye, and settled down to dinner, I wound up calling the brother up again as developments overtook dessert. I wish I could remember the subsequent chat between himself and Sister the Elder. It was nearly as funny as her account of waking my niece.

Speaking of whom, there's something wonderfully now about this shot of my Dad in Chelmsford watching my brother in Missouri watching my sister and her partner and my niece all lepping about the place to the strains of 'Saturday Night Fever'.

We could have done with this many a time over the last twenty-five years, as there being so many of us, and all of us with very separate lives, we've managed only one full family Christmas together since 1981. That was 1997. And since then there've been a couple of additions to the clan. I think next year we'll definitely have to make it a tenth anniversary shindig.

The webcam is no substitute, truth be told, but it does help. Distance isn't anywhere near as rough as it used to be. I'm not saying it's easy, but it's surely not as hard. There's always a way.

Yahweh in a manger...

... no crib for his bed.

Oh, away! I thought you said Yahweh! Well, my version makes more sense.* Chesterton, as always, puts it well:

A mass of legend and literature, which increases and will never end, has repeated and rung the changes on that single paradox; that the hands that had made the sun and stars were too small to reach the huge heads of the cattle. Upon this paradox, we might almost say upon this jest, all the literature of our faith is founded. It is at least like a jest in this, that it is something which the scientific critic cannot see. He laboriously explains the difficulty which we have always defiantly and almost derisively exaggerated; and mildly condemns as improbable something that we have almost madly exalted as incredible; as something that would be much too good to be true, except that it is true. When that contrast between the cosmic creation and the little local infancy has been repeated, reiterated, underlined, emphasised, exulted in, sung, shouted, roared, not to say howled, in a hundred thousand hymns, carols, rhymes, rituals, pictures, poems, and popular sermons, it may be suggested that we hardly need a higher critic to draw our attention to something a little odd about it; especially one of the sort that seems to take a long time to see a joke, even his own joke.

It's a safe bet that at half twelve mass at Ballyfermot this morning Father Ryan will have pointed over to the crib on his left - he'll have stepped away from the pulpit, and will be on the steps in front of the altar - and said that if you wanted to know why he was a Christian, or why he was a priest, he will add, humbly pointing out that that matters far less than being a Christian - then you needed to look no further than that. No further than the maker of us all become flesh, become a tiny, helpless, baby.

He says it every year. I guess if you're going to repeat a homily, it might as well be that one.

Happy Christmas.

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*As does Billy Connolly, with his 'a wain in a manger...'

Separated at Birth

Ladies and Gentlemen, your attention please!

Here I have two photos, taken a good year and a half apart. The top one is, as I'm sure you'll know, being studious sorts, a Tomato Frog. It's not the best picture you'll see of one -- this is, for my money -- but nonetheless, this squat little beast is one of the great unheralded treasures of the Manchester Museum, or at least of its Vivarium.

It's from Madagascar, and is basically nocturnal, and lives in marshy areas, squatting in the mud, where rather than chasing its prey it waits for its victims to stumble into its way, at which point it'll make you regret having crossed its path. Charming, eh? Oh, and it gives off a sticky white mucus, just for the craic. I don't know whether it coughs it up, or just generally oozes it, or even what it looks like.

 

I'm picturing Brandy Sauce, oddly, that staple of the Christmas dinner from my old hall, but then that's because I've always found it a suspicious looking substance.

Anyway, so much for the red-faced toad, or whatever. (Toads and frogs are taxonomically identical, as I've already told you* so why not the Tomato Toad? it's surely more toad-like than frog-like.)

To the right, then, is a purple bag belonging to the Ginger Beast herself, which, as I'm sure you'll agree, looks uncannily like the aforementioned amphibian. It does, though, doesn't it? I wonder has she named it. Do people name bags?

Probably not.

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* What do you mean you weren't listening? Look, if you don't make an effort you're never going to pass your exams, you know. Some people...

Always 3 o'clock in the Morning

Generally speaking I've mixed feelings about most Catholic newspapers. That's as it should be, I suppose. Everyone's got an agenda in everything we read, and it's rarely our own -- or at least, not exactly -- and so a certain amount of furrowing of brow and pursing of lips is to be expected. And The Catholic Herald is certainly no exception in that regard.

Still, it has its strengths, and one of them is Ronald Rolheiser's syndicated column, which I could read online, but which I like to take in as I'm putting away my paper. He has certain themes he returns to again and again, drawing deeply on the writings of the likes of St John of the Cross in considering our experiences of depression, alienation, isolation, fear, and doubt.

His current column, dated 17 December just so you know when it gets archived, talks of our spiritual need to rediscover our innocence. It's a fine one, especially where he remarks that:

...the challenge is not so much to come back to the innocence of a child (something we could never do, even if we tried) but to see the knowledge and maturity that we've gained from all our years of learning and experience not as an end but as a stage, a necessary one, on the journey to a still deeper place, wisdom, fuller maturity.

What that means is that it is not just important to learn and become sophisticated, it is equally important to eventually become post- sophisticated; it is not just important to grow in experience and shed naivete, it is equally important to eventually find a certain "second naivete"; and it is not just a sign of intelligence and maturity to stop believing in Santa and the Easter Bunny, it is a sign of even more intelligence and deeper maturity to start believing in them again...

To be an adult is precisely to be experienced, complex, wounded. To be an adult is to have lost one's innocence. None of us, unless we die very young, carries the dignity of our person and of our baptism unstained through life. We fall, we compromise, we sin, we get hurt, we hurt others, and mostly we grow ever more pathologically complex, with layer after layer of emotional and intellectual complexity separating us from the little girl and little boy who once waited for Christmas in innocence and joyful anticipation. And that can be painful.

I like that. Pretending things don't hurt, that work isn't necessary, that there's not wickedness out there and all manner of demons within -- that does us no good whatsoever.

Fighting from the First

Then Herod, when he saw that he had been tricked by the wise men, was in a furious rage, and he sent and killed all the male children in Bethlehem and in all that region who were two years old or under, according to the time which he had ascertained from the wise men.

So, there was an article in yeterday's Guardian that, while interesting, missed a glorious opportunity. Have a read of this, where Kathryn Hughes rightly argues that in the best Christmas stories it's only when Christmas is imperilled that it starts to mean something. Leaving aside that the same could be said of every story - hell, of life itself - she picks such examples as A Christmas Carol, How the Grinch Stole Christmas, Miracle on 32nd Street, The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, and even Little Women, and makes her point well.

All well and good, but she rather spectacularly misses the fact that the same could be said of the first and most important of all Christmas stories. No seriously, have a read of what Matthew has to say on the matter. We never show the slaughter of the innocents on our Christmas cards, and it would be bad taste to show up at Christmas parties dressed as oriental despots or their guards, clutching spears with impaled babies on their points... but that's part of the story all the same.

Christmas by its nature is a candle in the dark, a stolen kiss, a magnificent victory snatched from the jaws of a terrible defeat. Following the tale of the Magi or of Luke's shepherds we celebrate Christmas in gratitude, adoration, humility, and splendour, and rightly so. But we should never forget the part that Herod plays in the story, and remember the terror, the vigilance, and the defiance that glows at the heart of the tale of how God wrote himself into our great play...

Lying is destructive of society...

... it undermines trust among men and tears apart the fabric of social relationships - CCC 2486

Some months ago, a couple of friends and I met with someone who we had hithero thought of as both honourable and sensible, but who I now think of as -- to be frank -- a gullible, pompous, buffoon. And thinking he would be fair and be able to help us, we told our story, which was at odds with the stories he'd already heard, and he shook his head in disbelief. How could we expect him to believe what we were saying, that somebody appeared to be a Jekyll and Hyde character, someone who -- among other things -- was a devout Roman Catholic.

And at that I nearly exploded. Leaving aside the horrible irony of such a statement being made just moments after a reference he'd made to the Spanish Inquisition, I was insulted on behalf on the many honourable atheists, agnostics, and Protestants that I know -- and two of them were sitting with me at the time. And what's more, I had told our story while nervously turning my Rosary ring, my prayer book in my pocket.

Devout Roman Catholic, eh? What on earth does that mean? Look, I'm not qualified to judge, and I fall and fail all the time, but can a person who engages in acts that are intrinsically evil really be deemed devout?

Take calumny, for example. You know what calumny is? Allow me to quote the Catechism on this one, CCC 2477, if you're interested:

Respect for the reputation of persons forbids every attitude and word likely to cause them unjust injury. He becomes guilty:

- of rash judgment who, even tacitly, assumes as true, without sufficient foundation, the moral fault of a neighbor;

- of detraction who, without objectively valid reason, discloses another's faults and failings to persons who did not know them;

- of calumny who, by remarks contrary to the truth, harms the reputation of others and gives occasion for false judgments concerning them.

The Catechism is clear and quite fascinating on this topic in general. Well worth a read, I think.

A Memorable Return

Yesterday's journey wasn't quite as gruelling as Thursday's had been, but it was far from easy for all that. Again I had to put my head down while the ship sailed, thus wiping out the real advantage of sailing - unlike on a short-haul flight, time on a ship is rarely dead time, but when you're talking gale force eight or above, it's kind of hard to work.

Still, I arrived more or less on schedule, hurried out to base, dumped my bag, and joining with some of the crew did a sharp about turn and set off for Donnybrook, there to dine and whine, to quaff an ale or two, and then to stroll back towards town in the most charming and indeed apologetic of company, ultimately grabbing a nightlink home.

And my, what a surprise awaited me there. Oh, if only I could tell you here... let's just say that while part of me is shocked, horrified, aghast, appalled, disgusted, and even nauseous, another part is vindicated and incandescent with a righteous fury. This isn't over. Not by a long shot.

Maybe I will tell you. But not for a while yet. Not until the pieces have been put back in the box.

Speaking of which, tonight I stuck the only woman in my life away in the attic. Sorry about that, Alberta. Don't worry, hon, it won't be forever. It's just that, well, you know, you could cause problems. A samurai can't serve two masters, after all.

Money for Old Rope

It's not Advent yet, you know. Not till Sunday. Not to be picky, but just so you know. I know, I know, there's a sense in which it's always Advent, in which we're always waiting, but I'd meant in the purely seasonal way.

Anyway, yesterday ended on a fine note. I'd spent most of yesterday working away, marking essays, returning essays, pondering dilemmas other than and as well as my own, and stressing about - hopefully - nothing, until I finally cursed myself and announced, in heroically masculine fashion 'I'm going to the pub.'

And so I did, battling my way through wind and rain as I strode down towards the Clonskeagh gate and took a determined right towards Ranelagh, oblivious to the phone ringing in my pocket, deafened as I was by the gales around me. Into Russell's then, there to seek out Conor and Cormac, and to win a pub quiz for the first time in my life.

There's something to be said for the instant friendships you can make on holidays. I've not laid eyes on the lads since the summer of 2000, when we scraped Stymphalian dirt and drank too much Amstel together. Since then we've hardly heard from each other though the lads have moved from Canada to Dublin, and we've managed a mutual friend or two, notably the legendary Mr Hall. So it was that rather than catching up on what we've been doing for the last six years, we went straight to modern matters and the rather pressing concern that was winning the quiz.

Which we did, handily paying for my taxi home. First though, there was a quiet one to be had in McSorley's. It's changed. I may have been away too long.

Dying to live, we only live to die

Assuming I can leave tomorrow -- the Irish Sea is being somewhat temperamental -- this will turn out to have been an almost perfect trip. Granted, I failed in my main mission, but come late on Wednesday evening, that looked pretty much inevitable.

So. Today was lovely. Work in the morning, a fine and final departmental lunch - though with some sad news being shared, a carefully drafted letter in the afternoon, a swift pint with Gareth and his Dad, and then off to meet Louise for dinner - which was lovely -- and then to see Cyrano de Bergerac at the Royal Exchange.

Seriously, how good is Cyrano? Admittedly, I'm biased, but how many plays are there out there that combine fencing, letters, pens being mightier than swords, capes, swaggering, unrequited love, delicious pastries, groanworthy puns, a refusal to bow in the face of impossible odds, and -- of course -- the very soul of panache?

All that, and a Dubliner in the title role. How could I not adore it?

Ben Harper was marvellous as Cyrano, with Oliver Chris -- Boyce from The Green Wing - spot on as Christian and Jonathon Keeble imperious as De Guiche. Jessica Oyelowo was rather annoying -- Louise called her 'insufferable' -- as Roxane, but that's the fault of the character, rather than the actress, and she does redeem herself massively as the play goes on. All the mucking about before the play proper looked good, though with us arriving in the nick of time - having to forego the pleasures of the Weihnachtsmarkt as we'd hurried to the theatre -- we didn't see much of it. Still, it sounds like it's getting a good response.

It's funny -- Lou and I have been to the Exchange four times together now, and with the exception of Separate Tables every play we've seen has ended with a man slain on the ground. That's a truly troubling trend. Hopefully that'll get suitably derailed in the new year, and if we're lucky we'll get to see something that really takes advantage of what the REx offers set designers.

The Tempest has potential, I reckon. Mind, there'll be things to be seen before then, and not just in the REx either. Anyone for Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead?

Northern Delights

So, today's Catholic Herald, I noticed after mass, has a cracking headline down near the bottom of the front page. Vatican incensed by China ordinations.

Look, it's all in the pronunciation. And I'm sure the double-meaning is far from intentional. These are the same people who eschewed the chance to run the headline 'Church mocks Church' a couple of months back.

Actually the front page is quite informative. I always used to wonder, back in the days of my Prestonian jaunts, what church it was that so dominated the Preston skyline. It turns out it's Saint Walpurge's, the spire of which is the third highest in Britain, and it looks as though the Church can't afford to keep it open. Hmmm. Perhaps I should visit at some point before it gets closed or converted into something else.

Again, it's been a good day. Time and lunch with the clan, followed by meeting the Supreme Student emeritus for a catch-up session in KroPic over hot chocolate, and then mass -- after which over tea I was amazed when the charming sister of an old friend and I managed to recognise each other despite probably only having met once. And then it was off to Popolino's for pizza, and then The Pub...

The Labyrinth of the Faun

And yet another good day. If this keeps up I might start thinking that 2006 hasn't been so bad after all.

I spent most of the day with the extended clan, chatting and laughing, and perusing my Amazonian arrivals - notably the complete Bone, which is even better than I remember the individual issues being. Off then into town to meet Renate and Birgitta at the Christmas Market, there to improbably cast an old friend as a dragon puppet -- don't ask! -- and to wander, calling a couple of friends and in the end deciding against going to the Choir and Orchestral Society's concert in the Anglican Cathedral in favour of meeting up with Laura and David to see Pan's Labyrinth.

If you haven't seen it, go. Trust me. It's fantastic, in the strictest sense of the world, but without a twee note - it's a rich, dark, frightening, violent, tender, layered, complex, real piece of work.

It's also got a lot of shoe-shining in it, but that probably won't appeal to everyone. Strolling in search of food afterwards Laura remarked to David, her naval cousin, that my boots were very shiny. Looking down, he exclaimed that indeed they were, and then lamented 'Outshone by a civilian. The shame...'

We wound up eating in the Mongolian Barbecue. Not the plan, but fun for all that. And then a race for the station, to try to get that 11:20 train...

Back in Blighty

I've a feeling that I'm going to be a happily exhausted corpse by the time I go home if things keep up at this pace.

Yesterday didn't quite go to plan, what with Gale Force Ten conditions on the Irish Sea keeping the fast ships in port and making life difficult for the bigger ships. I had to race to make it to the Ulysses on time, and then as ever boarded the ship wondering at the ludicrously designated stairwells -- the ruby, sapphire, emerald, and diamond stairs. That's red, blue, green, and dirty white to the rest of us. The conditions being too tumultuous for reading I just put my head down awhile, eventually waking to blink at the signpost in front of me -- signs pointing to the Volta Picture House, Leopold Bloom's Pub, the Grafton Arcade, and my favourite, The Cyclops Family Restaurant. How sweet. The Cyclops family.

Anyway, all this meant I arrived in Manc more than an hour behind schedule, but still with a little time to spare to dash off an e-mail before going to Sam's talk on Roman infantry combat - it was interesting, and struck me as a useful nudge towards us getting an accurate take on the matter, though I still have some slight concerns. But then, I've a habit of looking at exceptions rather than rules. Wine then, and dinner, and then drinks, there to be briefly joined by Laura dropping off keys -- to much interest, it has to be said. Was she my complication, people wondered? No, I laughed, and matters aren't so complicated now anyway.

Unfortunately, she neglected to tell me of the curious way the key would have to be applied, so there was an incident on the doorstep some time later. Anyway.

Today was good too, with mass in the Hidden Gem kicking things off properly before I met up with Becca and Andrew for lunch, then getting stuck into the auld shopping and eventually heading off to the cousins. It's been a lovely evening.

Mass? Well, today is the solemnity of the Immaculate Conception, after all. I always find it funny that at least according to the Bible, Eve is made from Adam's flesh, animated and transformed by God, and Jesus is made from that of Mary... clearly we're not exactly talking about cloning, but we're certainly talking about shared genetic material. Ahem. Just a thought.

It's Horace's Birthday too, but that's a separate issue.

Fun and Frolics and Fun and Frolics and Fabness and Frivolity and Fun

So, this coming weekend will see my last Mancunian trip of 2006. Not my last trip to England, you understand, as Chelmsford beckons -- and I hope Deefor and the Guinea Fowl are looking forward to meeting me - but my last to my second city.

Gosh, bizarre to write that. Still, I spent five years there, so what do you expect?

Anyway, it's going to be a busy trip. Not busy in a bad way, just in a mad way. If I do everything I'd like to do, and that'll be impossible, I'll manage to attend a seminar on Roman battle narratives followed by a meal and a drink; I'll have a hopefully productive supervision, before assisting at mass at the Hidden Gem, Friday being the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, perhaps hanging around for a lunchtime carol service before catching up with Becca for lunch and then doing some shopping.

I suspect I shall have to forego the Chaplaincy Christmas party to catch up with my cousins, and I have no idea what'll happen on Saturday, as that could involve meeting Renate and Birgitta for lunch and a stroll around the Weihnachtsmarkt, possibly attending choral evensong in the Anglican Cathedral, and maybe even going to the University's Choir and Orchestral Society concert there that night. Or I might go to the wind concert at the RNCM. Or else to see Cyrano de Bergerac at the Exchange - that's a must for this trip, the only questions being when I see it, and with whom.

And then Sunday and Monday will depend on how the previous couple of days have gone, and where I stay on Saturday evening, and whether people reply to my e-mails, but there'll be mass again, of course, and perhaps drinks with Seb or chaplaincy people, and work, and I'd assume a departmental lunch, and maybe Cyrano then, or maybe an end-of-term Prison Break finale, though I think a coming exam will bar that. It all depends. It'll be fun, whatever happens - and there's room in there for coffee, for meals, for drinks, for simply strolling around. There are people I particularly want to see, of course, and I can find ways -- there are always ways, especially when you're as flexible and downright resourceful as mé féin -- so the balls are in their courts.

And then home on Tuesday, to place that shoulder firmly against the wheel, while somehow putting my nose to the grindstone. I'm not sure if that's ergonomically possible, but I'll give it a shot. First, though, we have a departmental Christmas dinner that night, organised by the postgrads.

Bizarre to think ten years have gone by since Claire and Alison masterminded that first night in The Front Lounge, Da Pino, Eamon Doran's, Cats, and Fiona's. Hell, bizarre to think that it's ten years since I first met Lucy, Heinrich, Daron, Fiona, Betty, Georgia, Susan, Charlotte, and Llewelyn.

I must see if I can scan in any photos from that night... they're just floating around HQ, after all.