It’s turning distinctly cold, and the last two mornings have started with an ice-scraping session for both myself and the car. Neither of us particularly like it.

Asked the Midnight Weatherman about our chances of snow on Christmas Eve, like they were predicting in the Standard, but he was very non-commital. Either way, though, it’ll snow and not settle, or simply be too warm for snow at all, so there’s no chance of a white Christmas.

I find the whole fact that it’s a week and a day until Christmas Day quite disturbing. It was once so far away and suddenly, without warning, it’s upon us. Testament to the fact was the magazine Christmas lunch yesterday, and the company party tomorrow.

Sandwiched in between, this evening, it was Mark’s brithday. Well, not actually his birthday per se - that’s next week - but the night in the pub to celebrate. It was like another reunion - half of PCW and a good smattering of Advisor and Dennis people. Spen got his bag stolen, and it took half an hour (literally) to get served at the bar every time someone wanted a drink, but they were the only two low points of a very fun evening.

Scott felt the need to explain in very graphic detail every aspect of his and Nat’s sex lives, until the point where he got groped by a guy at the bar (and this was not a gay pub). Apparently it’s the second time it’s happened to him in a week - the last being when he was tackle-out at a urinal.

Hmmm…

Anyway, I ended up having to run for the train, all the way along Oxford Street through the traffic (the pavements were too full) a bit like Linda Kozwolski at the end of Crocodile Dundee. I made it, barely, and then sat coughing like I had some terminal disease in a carriage full of clearly paranoid commuters.

I’d imagine they’ll spend the rest of the night popping vitamin C.

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