Lovely present, better future

Allegedly, it's better to give than to receive. Reckon that's all very relative to the circumstances... Must have been a good girl this year, as I've been on the receiving end of some lovely things from some lovely people - thank you all, but especially:

My favourite old china from my favourite old china, Blondie

(this crockery is called Gaytime - makes for

interesting searches on Ebay)

A wonderful tome about disappearing shop frontages in NYC

from Mr Lane - typography heaven

The sweetest (they're very old, not vintage) Japanese salt

and pepper pots from dear Mr Rogers

Library Christmas loan from Les French - suggestion that

it might keep me warm on a cold night whilst they're away

(Taschen The Big Penis Book: trust me, Ladies - once you've seen one,

you really haven't seen them all)

Amidst the piles of chocolates/hankies/bottles of booze, there appeared an unfeasibly kind and daftly extravagant bit of technology kit from Blunt Santa (big gratitude for making my life better in more ways than one, Boss/Friend).

Despite all these treats, the very finest gift of all wasn't something from "fatty with his sack of shit" (best Christmas album ever, after Phil Spector obviously, has to be A John Waters Christmas - thanks to BBH Aine). It didn't come down a chimney either.

No, but it did turn up in a stocking. Two, in fact. Attractive surgical stockings, delivered via a Toyota Yaris sled, courtesy of the kindness of top surgeon-cum-Santa Mr Rhodes of Bradford Royal Infirmary (thank you, HDU and Ward 19). It was beautifully wrapped in M&S pyjamas, and arrived just in time for The Queen's Speech and a Christmas lunch to be cherished for years to come. The most unexpected and perfect present we could have wished for. (Sadly, I fucked it up on the sprouts front, but pulled it all back with my spectacular pickled onion gravy - don't ask.)

Scorpio Rising

Birthday time for us sting-in-the-tail types. I've had the most lovely weekend. Began with another evening at The Haberdashery with my dear pal Smiff selling our old junk. We like to think of ourselves as Steptoe and Son (I'm Albert, she's the long-suffering Harold). Great fun and a few bob in the pocket:

Soundtrack to our lives

Saturday included pottering around the cafés of Crouch End with The Ex, eating cakes, drinking tea, talking about dildos (don't ask). The Ex is a successful web producer at the BBC. His team had bought him a birthday card (his birthday is the day before mine) which was a really sweet picture of meadow flowers, and they'd drawn a great big cock over the top of it. I found this very touching - they obviously think he's a great boss and have a lot of respect for him:

They spend your licence fee on stuff like this

Was really bloody lucky to get into a completely sold-out Warlocks gig at the Luminaire. Yet again, it's who I know and certainly not what I know. Having been previously introduced to the very witty and charming Andy Inglis who runs the Luminaire by Howard Local at a gig (Dan Mangan if my fading memory serves me right), we were lucky enough to bump into him on the door and get a sneaky pass in. Back of the net! And they were superb, those Warlocks (Bobby Hecksher is top - I saw him afterwards and told him so, to which he replied, "oh, thanks so much for coming down" in a truly humble and enthusiastic way - lovely manners). And then, there seemed to be a lot of booze and things turned a bit soft round the edges, including me...all good, though...:

The perfect combo of psych and good manners

Good, that is, until I had to collect my car next morning after 4 hours sleep...not big, not at all clever. Not entirely sure I should have been driving, actually. But after a shower and a mammoth fry-up, this Lady Lazarus rose again. Back to the pub for my birthday drinks with all my nearest and dearest. Perfect way to spend a Sunday afternoon - pals, few drinks (medicinal, by this point), lots of laughs - big love goes to anyone who turned up and for my goodies too: Mr & Mrs Barton for the choccy cake and fizz; Vik and Tim for my french violet creams; Smiff for my slap; Mr Local for my jazz-metal CD; Liza and Dave for the scary slinky thing and screenprint; Ber & K for the curry when I got in; but topping the lot, me old mucker Blondie who had hunted down a copy of my 70's Hornsea pottery childhood mug which I loved so dearly, until I broke it some years back:

What a mug (it, not me)

(Postscript: Having just read this week's Luminaire mailout, can I suggest that any of my regular readers subscribe here: http://www.theluminaire.co.uk/ Even if you only subscribe, with no intention of going to what can only be described as probably London's best small venue, run by a very witty Scot, staffed by cheerful, competent people, hosting some fine musicians every week, then you will at least be treated to what is one of the funniest mailouts I have the pleasure of reading. This week I feature heavily (see Warlocks paragraph above) as the inebriated 'friend' who suggested he might want to bring the swearing and ranting back into the mailout. We raging potty mouths have to stick together.)

Winter, Spring, Summer Or Fall...

A lot can happen in a year. Generally, you do a bit of work, go down the pub, watch some bands play, hang out with your mates, add in a Christmas/birthday/summer holiday.

In the last 12 months (from tomorrow, the 11th of February), a very dear friend died (RIP dear Tabby - sorely missed), another old friend died of breast cancer at the age of 41, I fell in love, crossed the Atlantic, crossed the Pacific, watched a family member pass tragically away, watched my dear brother go through hell, packed up my home and life into boxes, crossed the globe again and fell even more in love, saw Christmas and New Year in the baking sun among wonderful people, suffered a personal tragedy and a lot of heartbreak...yup, a lot can happen in a year.

If I've learned one valuable lesson this year, it's that you really are fucked without your mates. They're there through thick, thin and a million other soppy clichés besides. And when that shit really does smack into that fan at great speed and you need a bit of moral support...taking to the airport...picking up at ungodly hours...tears and mascara wiped away...a bed to crash in...a meal to warm you...a sick joke to cheer you...a hug (physical or one of those imagined ones created for times apart)...a scarf to keep you warm when you don't have the faintest clue where you stored the Winter clothes...a mammoth bar of Cadburys...reminding you that you'll be OK, you always make it through...or just to be there with a cuppa or an ear to bend on the other end of a phone...y'know - the usual friend shit.

Obviously, despite this sad-mad-topsy-turvy-stuff year, I count myself very, very, lucky indeed. Because as the clever Miss Carole King noted, all I gotta do is call and you'll be there. So thank you - you know who you are x