Part of this morning was spent filming a missing few seconds sequence for a video of I Fly My Balloon. It's the first time there has been a clear sky for days and days. It is ferociously muddy, but at least the rain has stopped (until tomorrow).
The vinyl records are suppose to be showing up tomorrow. Robert has had notification, but we're not sure whether they will; they could be coming in by air, or they could be caught up in a gigantic lorry in an eleven mile queue in Kent, or a ten mile one in Calais. I have never felt less like a pop star, but the Punk Girl Diaries send an email saying 'Dear Pop Star..', with an invitation to their Twitter party, so maybe I am- at least to them, and that's pretty fabulous!
Over on that there Face-ache, academic colleagues are posting coded messages about what it's been like this term. It certainly has, it certainly has. There are a few weeks break from the eight-hour online days, which I'll spend working on my book, burrowing through piles of photocopied articles making sure my referencing is just right: I've fixed half of the sub-editor's corrections but there are some specific ones that are a little more tricky. Somewhat ironically, the book that necessitated a visit to the library that took several hours the week before last, was actually not needed in the reference section because the publisher uses a different referencing system to Harvard, which I'd been using. I think it is all worth it though. I became so detached from the book at one point that it felt as though someone else had written it, but now if feels just as heartfelt as The Lost Women of Rock Music, and even more necessary (thinks coded thought about students at work).
The tiny and scrawny Christmas tree is in from the back yard, weighed down by enormous baubles. It hasn't got a clue what's happening, but at least it makes things seem a little bit more Christmassy around here. Negotiations with the Offsprogs have worked out a doorstep visit with hot water bottles and a promise of pretend-Christmas next year (if there is ever an end to this: when are you going to take responsibility, anti-maskers?). The tiny and scrawny Christmas tree will come back into the house, probably slightly confused by then. I've lost the tinsel somewhere in the loft, so there might be a chance to find it in time for Christmas, the sequel.
Normally me and Champagne Friend go to Southwark Cathedral to bellow out some carols on this night, and tuck a tenner into an envelope for Crisis: next, year, next year. And I always go to the carols at St Johns Church in Barnet on Christmas Eve, where me and a friend once stood in front of a group of teenage girls who finished every carol a line earlier than everyone else, and then sang O Little Town Of Bethlehem to an entirely different tune to the rest of the congregation all the way through- without even noticing. That was a very typical 'Barnet Normal' experience, a bit like the bowling green scarecrows. How dare you laugh!
So no carols on Christmas Eve: I'm tempted to do a kitchen disco on Facebook, or something like that. We'll see.
I have loaded up on books, and most of the time will be lazing about reading trashy detective stories without even the TV on, eating leftover Lindt chocolate Santas. I might manage a bit of radio, a bit of Gideon Coe, Gary Crowley and Lauren Laverne, perhaps. And some recording- all this year's songs, a new album. How will I ice the cake?