That Time Of Year

It’s over a month since I wrote anything here so perhaps I should do some catching up. I suppose I’d be well advised to leave out the embarrassing bits, or at least most of them. I’ll definitely leave out the juicy bits because in this season of goodwill, I shouldn’t make you envious, so I won’t.

I promised you an embarrassing bit so here goes. I occasionally help out at Westminster’s Meals on Wheels service, now for some obscure reason called Westminster Home Services. Anyway, I joined the annual reveleries at the office, drank a few lagers (I reckon that’s embarrassing enough, given that  I’m usually a bitter drinker) interspersed with half a bottle of Jack Daniels. At the end of the afternoon, I and two friends then went to the pub on Marylebone station, where I was able to revert to bitter drinking.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have used the word able, because when it came to leaving time, I walked out onto the station and fell flat on my face, which is now not so flat due to the bumps on my forehead and the lumps of dried blood on my nose. In the fall I must somehow have activated my mobile and got through to my grandson. He heard lots of noise and incoherence and thought I was in trouble. Who me? He couldn’t get any sense out of me and persuaded his mother to call me. She did so and after listening to me saying interminably that I couldn’t hear her she suggested: “Dad, give the fucking phone to someone who can hear me!” I handed the phone to a friend who explained the situation whilst the other friend tried to staunch the bloodflow.

We took a tube and a bus to my local, the Skiddaw, where other people joined in the first aid action by applying ice to the wounds. In the end they just decided to let the blood congeal. By this time I’d tried to call Gigi but again communication had it’s problems and  a  friend took my phone and gave her the gist of what had happened. She came and escorted me home, somewhat aggrieved, as she’d been looking forward to a quiet night in.  The next morning, I got the distinct impression that she thought I deserved more than a bloody nose.

I spent the next few days telling people that the face had nothing to do with slipping on the ice, nothing to do with   being in a fight, etcetera. Some of them believed me.  I have to admit that my amazing good looks are now amazing for another reason, but despite everyone else being convinced I’ve broken my nose, I think I’m fine.

Last Sunday we went to a party before doing the Inn On The Green Gig. Some lovely lady even suggested the nose enhanced the hard-living bluesman image. Anyway, the gig was great despite the absence of Chris Youlden who couldn’t make it because of the travel chaos that always ensues when snow hits London.  Much dancing and a little drinking added to the chaos.

This is the time when people look back and try to evaluate the year or the decade. I don’t, though perhaps I should. So it’s time to wish all of you out there a great Christmas and New Year. I’ve got my christmas shopping to do.