This top most polls and votes for Best Christmas tune ever, and it puts up a strong case. McGowan and MacColl’s vocals compliment each other perfectly in this in-the-gutter real-life-full-of-hope Christmas scene. Brilliant.
I’ve tried writing this post a few times but either it is too wordy and full of dull backstory you won’t be interested in, or I sound like a whiny whiner. Or both. (What’s new right?) So I’m going to give it one last go, keeping the facts and the plot to a minimum. It won’t win a Pulitzer, it won’t get my freshly pressed, but it will get it out of my head and down on paper. Or at least on screen. So here is what I got up to last weekend.
Friday was the office Christmas meal, a night I was dreading due to my social ineptitude and my lack of interest in most of my colleagues. But luckily I was placed on a table with a handful of girls from the floor above who I get on really well with, and if I’m honest, secretly fancy a bit. I spent most of the evening struggling with the smalltalk, drinking free wine and occasionally dancing ironically for the entertainment of my fellow diners. I know, I sound like a laugh riot. This is why I don’t go to these kind of things.
Anyway, one of the upstairs girls in particular is far and away the prettiest in the building and I’m not quite sure how but at one point she grabbed my hand (in, I stress, a chaste gesture) and we were on the dance floor. This was when it became to clear to us both that I am in fact the world’s shittest dancer and I funky-chickened bravely to the end of one song before we sat down again. We laughed at my failings in the art of dance (to the extent that she now calls me “professor of dance” at work) and the evening stumbled along till I went home.
The next morning, my social and rhythmic failings haunted me through my hangover. Why did I go? I can’t socialise, I can’t dance, I cant even take a decent photo. What a fucking waste of a person, I told myself, don’t go next year. When I managed to get out of bed about 1pm I was still feeling physically and emotionally weak and seriously considered not going to the friend’s birthday party planned for that night. But I decided to give it a go, and if I only lasted an hour and had to bail, then that’s what I would do.
The difference between Friday and Saturday was that the former was spent with people who happen to earn their rents and mortgages in the same building, but the latter I was with people I have been friends with for a good 20 years or so. Can you guess which night went better?
Admittedly I didn’t dance on Saturday (which probably helped) but I actually had fun, catching up on gossip and generally chatting and laughing. So maybe I can socialise, I can handle an evening with other people, it just has to be people I give a shit about. And due to the high alcohol intake of Friday, I wasn’t even drinking. I know. Unheard of.
The party was for “Amanda”. I’ve known her for slightly less time than the others but still a long time. We’re good friends even though months often pass when we don’t see each other. We went out a few times shortly after we first met but (due to my poor wooing skills) it never went anywhere. I didn’t get much time to talk to her – it was her party after all and she was circulating and socialising – but when it came time to head home, I caught up to say goodbye. We hugged, cheek-kissed, hugged, cheek-kissed, wondered why we don’t catch up more often, promised we would, hugged.. and that moment happened when our eyes met in that way that makes your head say “kiss her now”. And I swear if we hadn’t been on the dance floor in the middle of her birthday party with everyone around us, I would have done. Maybe I should have done. But my next thought was that if we were going to kiss for the first time, it wasn’t going to be with a crowd watching. Not because I was feeling embarrassed or ashamed or awkward, but because I didn’t want her to be.
We parted, arrangements were made that we would all meet up the following Saturday, all us friends of 20 years. And I decided that I had to try to spend more time with Amanda, to tell her I was stupid last time round and that I’ve always liked her but been too scared to tell her.
Or of course, I may have misread the whole thing.
Today is Thursday. The big get together is in two days time. We’ll find out soon.
The pre-Christmas ChCh season continues with this brass-band-filled, anti-war, very English festive medley. It’s an old one, it’s not a dance-along Christmas party DJ classic, but it’s a
Every week, Rochelle – the Queen of FriFic – sends a prompt pic to over a hundred writers across the world. Each of us then produces 100 words of fiction. Here is this week’s picture:
and my 100 words are these:
He hated to walk away when the arguments began again, the shouts and comments raining down on his back. But he knew he had to give them both space before their words became daggers that injured irreparably.
He walked through the back garden, pensive as he approached the bench, the crunching of the remaining snow under his feet breaking the silence. He sat, considered, watched his slowing and calming breaths clouding before him.
His eyes drifted to the decorative shrubs. Their winter covering of ice remained, but it was receding. Beneath it, he realised, the delicate and beautiful still survived.
And suddenly it’s December. I’m not really sure how that happened. That can only mean one thing of course… The Big Day is less than a month away. So here at Reclining Towers I’ve decided to hand over the Ch Ch every week to a few of my favourite festive numbers. This week, the mighty Como. You can’t beat the classics, and there’s a very good reason why this is still as popular as ever some sixty years on – because it’s a
Even when there is turkey to be turked, cranberries to be cranned and pie to be pied in time for Thanksgiving, Rochelle still finds time to send a prompt pic to every PC, laptop, phone, tablet and online games console on earth. In return for this selfless giving, writers ponder, generate and share 100 words each.
Here is this week’s pic: Read more…