Eat Your Heart Out, Hans Christian Andersen

I had hoped that simply pressing the "New Post" button might trigger something deep within my currently dazed mind, urging me forward into a new and deliriously eloquent world of blog-writing, but apparently that plan has turned out to be a complete and utter failure.

So, I turn to the familiar realm of anecdote. As soon as I figure out what I'm thinking in the present, I'll try to slot that in as well. But for now, let's pretend it's the Sunday before Christmas, and the Collective Consumer Oragnism is out in force, and it's been a long day of toil and surprisingly good vegan chocolate cheesecake, and come 5 pm when the doors are shut, the employees cavort about the shop floor, singing terrible 80's hits over the paging system or, more practically: "Those of you needing to be coralled, meet me on 1st." To which myriad sheepish cries respond and the thock of uneven footfalls on the silenced escalator increases. It is honestly like a cattle yard some mornings. But enough. That's the past, and what comes next is still the past, but at least marginally closer to the present.

After books had been scooped from their unlikely resting places and returned from whence they came, and the schedule for the following day had been appropriately relabelled with a variety of literary characters and Star Wars robots, I was tempted into a drink with some colleagues before I caught my bus home. The drink(s) in question were highly enjoyable, more on the merit of intelligent conversation than inebriation -- although I'm sure it played some part in the proceedings. The fact of the matter is this: however many lovely people I meet throughout my worldly travels, only a small percentage of them are brainy -- at least to the point of geekdom in which I have been raised and have grown accustomed to.

France, for all it's charms, could only offer apologetic smiles and vague hand gestures compared to the haven of discourse I now find myself in. There, it was mostly stilted exchanges in which I violently accosted passers-by in the Place de la Republique and demanded to know the way to the beach in a very loud voice. Whilst thrilling in it's own way, this cannot, I am afraid, comapre to my current environment -- which actually allows me to make terrible puns about Sylvia Plath's designer range of ovens.

So, at the ripe hour of 7:15, I sallied forth to the bus station in the bitter Cambridge cold, convinced that I could catch something headed for Haverhill by 8 pm at the latest. It is important to note, before I go on, that I recieved a lift into town that morning -- and consequently recall the very moment I decided not to put on extra layers and return to my room for a pair of gloves. So I found myself at the bus stop, 20 minutes past seven, slightly tipsy, and saw that my bus had left ten minutes prior. No trouble. Another 10 minutes, another bus. And yet...Sunday, Sunday, Sunday. Land of interminable bus-waiting and inconvenience. The next bus came at 9:10. I was going to have to improvise.

Having had the forethought to charge my mobile -- an action I very rarely accomplish successfully as I'm just so unused to having one -- I rang home. I figured at least speaking to someone in a country where Christmas is synonymous with 86 degrees of sunshine and glee might keep me warm. This proved true only for a limited time. I chatted happily enough to my mother, attempting to avert the numbing cold of the metal seat beneath me by sitting on my uniform -- which is not of the most robust material in the world -- and occasionally smacking the palm of my hand against my thigh in a desperate bid to raise warmer blood to the surface. I imagine I must've appeared quite mad -- though considering my final situation perhaps this might be classified as a rare moment of lucid sanity by comparison.

News of home only kept me safe for 25 minutes or so, after which I started to seriously fear for my health. Suspecting shock and hypothermia were not far away, I left the embrace of the bus "shelter" and backtracked down Christ's Lane to a nondescript vent in an otherwise featureless brick wall. Indeed, the only thing of note relating to the vent itself was that it happened to be issuing forth a certain amount of tepid air. And this is how, in a desperate attemtpt to save my life, I could've been discovered in downtown Cambridge of a Sunday evening -- pressed face-first against a mid-wall grille, discussing citrus on a cell phone and pausing occasionally to utter a violent stream of expletives about my personal body temperature.

Of course, when the bus did finally arrive, the heating was broken. And when I finally disembarked in Horseheath, the mist had frozen across the pavement into a treacherous patina of icy death -- which very nearly sent me ass-over-teakettle when I attempted to start running for the safety of home. Finally, after goosestepping my way quickly (though cautiously) through the centre of the village, I made a final desperate sprint across the gravel of the drive and through the back door to the kitchen. Hardly pausing to fling down my belongings or greet the other members of the household, I began rapidly shedding articles of clothing whist powering up the stairs until I arrived before the shower, devoid of garments, and flung myself into its heavenly mercy with abandon.

And yet, relief was not that easily attained. I am sure you are all familiar with the sensation of pins and needles, but I really and truly hope none of you have had cause to find a name for the sensation of having gone through pins and needles and out the other side. As my hands and feet burned with the fire of a thousand plasticine suns (Forgive my absurd imagery, but that really is the best I can do to describe the sensation) I managaed to execute a delicate tango of temperature adjustment which eventually left me relatively stable. At this point I ran a very hot bath and proceeded to lurk in it for the next 20 minutes, occasionally surfacing for air and feeling rather like one of Squornshellous Zeta's self-satisfied mattresses. I might even have taken pause to globber gently, but I can't be quite sure. To be honest, it's all a bit of a blur after that.

But at least I can assure you that I did survive, and now, back in the land of the Present, which will soon be filled with the presence of presents (Forgive me), I have just about reached the end of my rambling capacity for this evening. Or morning. Take your pick. Which I suppose means I should wish you all a very happy Christmas indeed and bugger off to bed like a sensible human being. For the first time in a long while, I won't be working tomorrow -- and what's more, there will be cake.

Oh, and wink murder. That's good too.