Here's looking at you, kid

Boxing Day. That sort of listless hangover from the excitement of Christmas. Mealtimes mean leftovers and there's little incentive to drag myself into town and face the madness of the first day of sales. I thought about seeing the Golden Compass but I haven't the energy and I doubt anybody would want to sit next to me sneezing over Daniel Craig for 2 hours. That's right, I got the cold for Christmas. blergh.

It was a good day though. I ate too much food and watched Casablanca with Julie curled up uncomfortably in my side. She spent the first half hour repeating "Frankly my dear, I love you lets remarry" before she crashed only to wake up at the credits and huff that I didn't wake her to hear the line. The fact that she was quoting a parody of Clark Gable and not Humphrey Bogart escaped her. Shortly before she did sleep our street exploded in a barrage of flashing orange and gunshot bangs. It wouldn't be a holiday period without somebody setting the park on fire.

Despite some worries that nothing we ordered has arrived from America I received a fair stack of books I will try and read before next year and the shiny new Bladerunner dvd which came with an awesome holographic thing with Deckard pointing his gun and looking worried like only Harrison Ford can. My mum gave me a bottle of Coco Chanel since she knows I love it and she even hid it under a bowler hat which has since remained firmly on my head. It's gorgeous, smelling like my childhood and reminding me of too many things to try and list but damn if I don't have to put it on in the most awkward way possible to avoid my face. Nobody's gonna care what I smell like if I look like some sort of Pikachu girl. Not attractive.

So, it's over and for a week at least all I have to do is lie around in my pjs, socks and hat, read novels by Russian romantics and maybe get some writing done. Ah, the simple joys of the unemployed.