316. The Christmas Song

(ONLY 50 TO GO! COME ON, PEOPLE, WE CAN DO THIS!)

Ah, Nat King Cole. Silky smooth all the way, baby, and never better than on the Christmas Song. It's got a rubbish name, but it's a lovely tune and helps set up the feeling of Christmas better than any number of Swedish jumpers or glasses of Glogg ever could.

315. Last Tango in Halifax

Late to the party, as usual, I know. A whole series late, in fact. But I took one look at the opening episode of Season Two and got straight on Lovefilm. Because all life is here. Great writing, lovely acting, the joy that is Nicola Walker and the unexpected, slightly unsettling, outrageous hotness that is Sarah Lancashire in a pencil skirt and high heels. (Don't worry, the therapy sessions are booked and paid for.)

314. Twitter

Yeah, yeah, I hear you. But I would like to make a brief argument in my own defence.

I have only started to love Twitter since I began my brutal following policy. If I think you're funny or interesting I will follow you on Twitter. If you fail me in some way, by being an arsehole or only ever Tweeting to promote something or by being boring, I will unfollow you. You don't care about me, and I don't care about you, so it's very simple. I know people who really care about whether somebody they've Tweeted responds. And lots of people are very good at Twitter and get lots of followers. Exciting! But I live in the middle of nowhere so for me Twitter is like going into a really good cafe and being able to sit and listen in the corner. Perfect.

313. David Sedaris

Because good writing is the best thing in the world, and good, funny writing is even better than that, I can't imagine why David Sedaris is only coming in at number 313 on my ridiculous blog. Anyway, better late than never.

I suppose it is possible to be a literate, sentient human and not find David Sedaris funny, but if you know anybody like that I'd like their number so I can call them and shout down the phone. Me Talk Pretty One Day is still my favourite of his books, though the Santaland Diaries and whichever book has the story about the bees and the armour shouldn't be missed. And, in fact, his humour is the perfect thing for Christmas. So if you find yourself floundering this Yuletide, grab yourself some Sedaris and prepare to feel better.

312. Adnams Ghostship

Adnams is one of Suffolk's breweries. Been around a long time, still family owned, currently enjoying a resurgence thanks to some clever marketing and beer being cool again.

Ghostship is a pale ale. It's nutty and hoppy and delicious on its own or with food. And because it's not fizzy like lager, it's possible to drink more than one without feeling like Augustus Gloop.

311. Polpo

Polpo is a restaurant in London. It's very cool, doesn't take bookings in the evenings, gives you your wine in a tumbler, etc. The food is modelled after that which you would find in a Venetian bacari, or back street wine bar, little scrumptious things to eat with a glass of wine on your way home or to see your mistress. Some of the food is whatever. But the little things on toast are all delicious. The fennel salad is a keeper and if you have a hangover the piadina meatball smash will have you up on your feet in no time. But the best of all are the pizzette, little pizzas, so crisp and tasty and moreish it's hard not to order three.

310. Hippos Go Berserk!

One hippo all alone,
Calls two hippos on the phone...

Learn to count from one to 10 (and back again) with Sandra Boynton and in the process become somebody who understands how to have a good time at a party. That's what I call an educational book.

309. The Ordinary Princess

This is in my Top 10 books of all time. It is entirely perfect in every way, so I don't really have much to say, apart from please make sure you've read it.

308. The Box of Delights

A small boy comes home from school for the Christmas holidays and gets caught up in magic and mystery and mayhem. It's very old fashioned now, but in a good way - nothing to offend the PC police. It is not possible for me to enter into the spirit of Christmas without reading at least some of this book, and it always makes me long for deep snow, a jug of cocoa... and an adventure.

307. The House at Pooh Corner

A bear of very little brain. Eeyore in his field, eating thistles. Tigger trying to find out which food Tiggers like best. Pooh sticks. Rabbit and all Rabbit's friends and relations. Owl (or Wol) and his very intelligent sign, which read: Backson. Bisi. Backson.

So much of these stories is now woven into our collective consciousness - imagine coming from a generation without Pooh! Therefore I consider it our duty to make sure that we pass on these books. They're old now, sure, but so's the Bible and nobody's thinking of dropping that from the list of books a person Must Read, are they? And now I'm hungry and it must be time for elevenses somewhere in the world...

306. The Tiger Who Came to Tea

Given how much I love them, there aren't enough classic children's books on this blog. So I'm going to make up for that with a short series, starting here with Judith Kerr's first, and for many, best, picture book.

I didn't stick around in the picture books when I was learning to read. So even though The Tiger Who Came to Tea would have been 10 when I was four, I don't remember reading it then. I remember it later, when I read it to my friend Katie. She loved it - couldn't get enough - and I fell in love with it too. As a result, it feels like a cherished childhood memory of my own, even though I only read it during Katie's childhood! Ah well, such is the way of these things. And as Katie is no longer here to have that memory for herself, my mental picture of reading it to a little red-headed girl is all the more precious.

It's a simple tale about a tiger who comes to tea with a little girl called Sophie, and her Mum. The tiger eats all the food in the house, drinks all the water in the tap and leaves again. So when Dad comes home they all have to go out for sausages and ice cream and Mum has to re-stock the larder, not forgetting an extra large tin of tiger food, just in case.

You must make sure that every small person you know has a copy of this book, and for good measure you should probably have one too. You know, just in case...

305. The soundtrack to 'The Hours'

I hated 'The Hours' the first time I saw it. It was too gloomy and miserable and I couldn't see the point. Then I watched it again and fell slightly in love. It's still gloomy and miserable but I can see the point now and largely the point is many brilliant actresses doing their thing rather brilliantly. Anyway, behind all the noses and despair is Philip Glass's soundtrack. I always thought he did cranky discordant nonsense, but I am entirely wrong, at least in this instance. And over the last few years the soundtrack to The Hours has become music that I can not only work to, but which seems to make the work better. When I had to take a copy test as part of interviewing for my last job, this was the music I went to when I had to shut the world out for an hour and do my best work under pressure. And even if you're not typing furiously, lost in another world, it's still beautiful music. And nobody dies.

304. The smell of woodsmoke

Woodsmoke is the smell of autumn in the countryside. It speaks of tumbling leaves and crisp air, of frosty mornings and robins hopping about on the lawn. Of wintry walks and breath-dampened mufflers and snowflakes and Christmas. Pity we can't bottle it.

303. A Bargain

Brown brogues, Clark's, leather, £37.99

Two pairs of spectacles, Glasses Direct, £71

Hiedsieck Monopole, Tesco, £14.99

10 white dinner candles, Tiger, £2 (but I did have to go to London to get them)

Who doesn't love a bargain? Now I will look 'stremely chic this Chrimbletime and then be drunk. Happy Holidays!

302. Chef's perks

(I would write 'perqs' as that would be correct, but you'd think I was a tosser.)

Chef's perks, of course, are those toothsome morsels of deliciousness that the chef gets because s/he is in charge. The crispiest part of the chicken skin. The caramelised gooey lump of sausage that sticks to the pan. The chocolate brownie batter. The golden, glistening cube of roast potato in the corner of the roasting tin. Ah yes, a great deal of greedy slurping goes on behind that closed kitchen door! This is why everybody should learn to cook.

301. Drinking wine out of small French tumblers

It's all Russell Norman's fault. The tables at Polpo are so small and close together that normal, long-stemmed glasses would get knocked over and break and also they are Not Cool. He gives you your wine in a small Duralex tumbler and I've got to like it. So now I drink wine at home out of a Duralex tumbler and sometimes Herself joins me and sometimes she rolls her eyes. But that's quite normal. Anyway, I wouldn't do it with Good Wine, we've got Herself's Granny's crystal for that. But the vino collapso we enjoy on a daily basis tastes none the worse for its humble vessel. Maybe next I'll try a goat-skin.

300. Charlie Connelly

Ooh, this must be the cheeky chappie section of the blog. Charlie is the author of Attention All Shipping and other books. They're easy to read, deceptively learned and informative, and there's something charming about his scruffy, lumbering approach to travel that makes it seem more possible than it sometimes does. Because I have read my favourites more than once, sometimes I skip the history and count how many pies and pints Charlie manages on one of his trips. I think he'd be a laugh to have a drink with, and he could help my tune my ukulele. And no, that is not a euphemism.

299. Jamie Oliver

Whatever you think about his social work, his recipes work. I've got most of his books and everything works, first time, and it's always delicious. And I love his knife skills. What?

298. Christmas, according to my dog (with editorial by me)

When I can be bothered to stop sleeping on my dog-bed* in the big warm place* (*sofa, *living room) I will use my iPaw to go onto the Interwoof. I will go to Dogazon and buy the Shouty one* (*George) a chill pill and the One I Like Who's Never Here* (*Tracey) a map of Walberswoof. Then I will buy Auntie Anna some delicious dog treats that she can feed me, hopefully while I"m lying on my favourite dog-bed* (*Anna's bed) being tickled and crooned over for hours and never told off or shouted at or made to go outside if it's dark or cold, unless I want to go in and out and in and out and particularly just at the really good bit at the movie which always makes me Muttley* (*laugh, evilly) because they think I am so stupid but I am not.

Then lots of tasty* (*meat or cheese) will fall from the sky, preferably into my open mouth while I'm lying on my favourite dog-bed having my tummy tickled, then this will continue forever. I do not see why this should be limited to one day. THIS SHOULD BE MY LIFE*

*This is her life

297. Hot Chocolate

Not the band, the drink. You have to have the proper Cadbury's drinking chocolate, not one of those instant packet things that you add water to. That's at very least. You could have Charbonnel et Walker, if you like, or Valhrona or whatever. But if it's cold and wet and miserable, and you don't really like tea, it's the drink of champions. No marshmallows - unless you are a child or one of those adults who carries a backpack in the shape of a sheep.

296. Efficient packing

One (possibly the only) good thing about budget air travel is that one small bag forces you to pack efficiently. There's that great scene at the beginning of 'Up in the Air' in which Gorgeous George is packing to go on another of his trips and everything is immaculately pressed and he only takes what is necessary and it fits perfectly into one small, wheelie suitcase. Twice, recently, I have tried to emulate his efficiency, with pleasing results - although I wasn't going away for very long! And I am helped enormously by my rucksack in a pouch, bought for me by my genius mother-in law. Because the real trick is not remembering to travel light, it's making sure that your things are stored in the best places to help you move through your journey with the greatest speed. So the clear pouch with the toiletries goes inside the case but into the separate liner in the lid, so the whole case doesn't have to be opened at security. Kindle, paper, notebook, pen, lip salve, hand cream etc goes in the front pocket of the case. Passport, wallet, boarding card, phone go into coat pocket, which can be closed by way of poppers or zip. Shoes are easy to get on and off. You'll feel so smug while all the others are waddling about holding up their trousers or trying to get their knee-high lace-up boots back on while 300 impatient travellers zap them with their eyeball lasers. And then you'll get to the front of the queue for the plane/taxi/bus and you'll be so smug you'll probably spontaneously combust. But it will have been worth it.

295. We Don't Eat by James Vincent McMorrow

If our inner lives are like onions – layer nestling next to layer, with the sweetest, most vulnerable bit protected at the centre – then this song hits me somewhere near the middle. Not sure why, it's just one of those things. It has special resonance just now because it's about him moving to the coast to write his album, but it stopped me in my tracks long before we thought to move to the seaside.

I've attached it here - have a listen. Tell me if your throat swells.

294. This...

I've written about Nora Ephron before, but I'm including this because a) it still makes me laugh, b) I'm still sad and c) I can.

With all due respect to the New Yorker, and the pen of Nora Ephron.

The Girl Who Fixed the Umlaut 

There was a tap at the door at five in the morning. She woke up. Shit. Now what? She’d fallen asleep with her Palm Tungsten T3 in her hand. It would take only a moment to smash it against the wall and shove the battery up the nose of whoever was out there annoying her. She went to the door.

“I know you’re home,” he said.

Kalle fucking Blomkvist.

She tried to remember whether she was speaking to him or not. Probably not. She tried to remember why. No one knew why. It was undoubtedly because she’d been in a bad mood at some point. Lisbeth Salander was entitled to her bad moods on account of her miserable childhood and her tiny breasts, but it was starting to become confusing just how much irritability could be blamed on your slight figure and an abusive father you had once deliberately set on fire and then years later split open the head of with an axe.

Salander opened the door a crack and spent several paragraphs trying to decide whether to let Blomkvist in. Many italic thoughts flew through her mind. Go away. Perhaps. So what. Etc.

“Please,” he said. “I must see you. The umlaut on my computer isn’t working.”

He was cradling an iBook in his arms. She looked at him. He looked at her. She looked at him. He looked at her. And then she did what she usually did when she had run out of italic thoughts: she shook her head.

“I can’t really go on without an umlaut,” he said. “We’re in Sweden.”

But where in Sweden were they? There was no way to know, especially if you’d never been to Sweden. A few chapters ago, for example, an unscrupulous agent from Swedish Intelligence had tailed Blomkvist by taking Stora Essingen and Gröndal into Södermalm, and then driving down Hornsgatan and across Bellmansgatan via Brännkyrkagatan, with a final left onto Tavastgatan. Who cared, but there it was, in black-and-white, taking up space. And now Blomkvist was standing in her doorway. Someone might still be following him—but who? There was no real way to be sure even when you found out, because people’s names were so confusingly similar—Gullberg, Sandberg, and Holmberg; Nieminen and Niedermann; and, worst of all, Jonasson, Mårtensson, Torkelsson, Fredriksson, Svensson, Johansson, Svantesson, Fransson, and Paulsson.

“I need my umlaut,” Blomkvist said. “What if I want to go to Svavelsjö? Or Strängnäs? Or Södertälje? What if I want to write to Wadensjö? Or Ekström or Nyström?”

It was a compelling argument.

She opened the door.

He handed her the computer and went to make coffee on her Jura Impressa X7.

She tried to get the umlaut to work. No luck. She pinged Plague and explained the problem. Plague was fat, but he would know what to do, and he would tell her, in Courier typeface.

 Plague wrote.

She went to the bathroom and got a Q-tip and gently cleaned the area around the Alt key. It popped into place. Then she pressed “U.” An umlaut danced before her eyes.

Finally, she spoke.

“It’s fixed,” she said.

“Thanks,” he said.

She thought about smiling, but she’d smiled three hundred pages earlier, and once was enough.

293. Sam Mendes

I have a colossal crush on Sam Mendes. I bet he gives great hugs. And he's got a lovely voice.

292. Kindle

Farsands and farsands of books, all on one little thingy no bigger than a real notebook made of paper. Joy.

There are some downsides. Reading is just not the same without covers and rustling pages. I live in constant fear that somebody other than me will peek at my library and instantly fall over laughing and then never speak to me again. (There really ought to be a lock on Kindles - Amazonians, please take note.) If you drop it in the bath you die. Possibly, haven't tested that particular theory. Certainly the Kindle would die. No draping it over a radiator and forever having a weirdly fat, crinkly book.

Anybody want to tell me that my fondness for Kindle means I am not a true bibliophile? Meet you outside the British Library tonight at dusk. I'll be carrying a Kindle and a knuckleduster fashioned out of my copy of War and Peace.

291. Nicknames

It's my mother's fault. Each of her three children had at least four regular nicknames, so I must have caught it from her.

Even if you don't know that I have a nickname for you, I do. If I don't, it's because I don't like you very much. The more I like you, the more nicknames I'll have for you. This is a simple equation, no?

290. Crab sandwiches

The best crab sandwich that I have ever eaten came from a tiny caravan at Blakeney Quay, north Norfolk. It was just crab, butter and bread, but it was juicy and creamy and intensely, delicously, crabby.

Herself is obsessed with crab, so I have tried to make crab sandwiches and they're good, but they're not great. This is clearly an issue of alchemy - or maybe she has to be outside, in Norfolk, on a sunny day. It's not for me to say.

The second best crab sandwich I have ever eaten was from Cromer, north Norfolk. Crab, bread, butter.

The third best crab sandwich I have ever eaten was from the Nelson pub, Southwold, Suffolk. Crab, bread, butter. Inside, no sun, but accompanied by chips (result) and beer.

Right, I am challenging myself to a challenge. Crab, bread, butter. Take Herself to a sunny place in East Anglia and make her run about a bit so she's hungry, then win the ultimate crab-based accolade. Or give up and have crab sandwiches join the list of other foods that are best made by somebody else.

289. Planning a menu

Herself wants to go out for supper. But the restaurant we're most keen to try is booked up, so I offer to cook/make mezze. It's a lovely day and Herself's passion for hummus knows no limitations, so I thought I might be on to a winner.

As soon as I was given the thumbs up, I started planning the menu. Homemade hummus, obvs. No tahini, she doesn't like it. Tzatziki, obvs, with mint from the garden. Sumac lamb, grilled so it's blackened in parts but pink inside. Slices of aubergine, baked in the oven and scattered with feta and oregano from the garden. Halloumi. Tabbouleh.

Then she decided she just wanted lamb and new potatoes and green beans. Delicious. But not a feast and no menu planning needed.

Never mind, I will deliver my feast another time. Any takers?

288. Simon Hopkinson

Herself cackles with glee when she remembers that it was she who first brought my attention to SH, when she bought me Roast Chicken and Other Stories.

I don't like to tell her that I have yet to cook anything out of that book, bar following his guide for roast chicken, which is excellent and might change the way you roast a bird forever...

He's a lovely writer. And now that he's done some telly we know that he has that remarkable knack for writing exactly as he speaks. That's what I call a 'voice'. Spare, elegant prose, but always branded through and through with his affectionate yet rigorous expectations.

He loves food. He loves writing. He doesn't like parties. I can't understand why we're not friends already.

287. Picpoul de Pinet*

I reckon this wine is a marketing ploy. It appeared so suddenly, and became ubiquitous so quickly, that part of me is convinced it's a new ruse from one of the big wine makers.

It's white, it's from the Loire, it's dry and tastes of minerals and it's delicious. So I don't care if it's authentic, or not.



*It's not a marketing ploy. It is real. I'm just feeling a bit jaded and weary today.

286. Superga

Fifteen years ago, you could only buy Supergas at Russell & Bromley. Now, they are everywhere. But I still love them, because they are Italian, and classic, and comfortable, and less ubiquitous than Vans. Also, if you have a navy pair, and you wear them a lot, and frequently in the sea, they fade to the colour of the sea off the Amalfi Coast. Va bene.

285. Internet Banking

In the last couple of years, I have become a savings bore. As usual, I am late to the party. Most normal people have a savings account before they're in their mid-thirties, and put money into it regularly. That last part is crucial, by the way.

So now I have this savings account. Oh, and a Cash ISA. And a job. So every month, there is money, and I make some of the money flow into the savings account. And I can watch it all flowing, and the size of the savings account swelling, from the comfort of my desk.

It's pathetic, isn't it? So, so sad. But it gives me pleasure and makes me feel vaguely responsible and grown up. And it just wouldn't be the same without Internet Banking.

284. Grey's Anatomy

Lots of very pretty doctors, rushing around doing medical things and having sex in cupboards, with great music and some (whisper it) pretty good writing?

Yes, please.

Sometimes, when I have a bad day at work, an episode of Grey's helps remind me that at least nobody died because I had a bad day. Which is a relief.

Glossy American network TV at its best. Or worst, depending on how cynical and generally un-life-loving you are. I'll leave that up to you.

283. Dan in Real Life

Being a film, starring Steve Carell and Juliette Binoche.

Being funny and sad and affectionate and about a writer.

Being just as cute as a bug.

Being perfect for rainy Sundays or moments when only something good will do.

282. Barbour

At last count, I own four Barbour jackets, one bag and one cap. Big Barbour is your classic green waxy thing, with a green tartan lining. But I should note that it is Sage, not Olive. Then there is Little Barbour, which is a short, cool waxy thing. Sage again. Then there is Black Barbour, which is black SURPRISE and not waxy but cool and warm. Ha! And then there is the first Barbour I ever bought, with money my Granny gave me, which is Brown and currently in the safekeeping of my friend Matt and which doesn't have a name.

I have used the satchel almost every day since I bought it in 2007. It's just coming into its aesthetic prime and will last another decade, at least.

The cap might actually be Herself's. Oops.

My dad wore a Barbour. In the winter, he smelled of cold wool,  Barbours and Gitanes. An unrecreatable admixture, as unique and weird and wonderful as the rest of him.

That's probably where my love for Barbour comes from. If it was good enough for my old man, it's good enough for me. A coat for every season, and a bag for every day. And that is what heritage brands are made of.

281. Coca-Cola

New or old, Classic or whatever, Coke is bloody delicious. But!

It must be very cold.

It must come from a can.

You must be hot

or tired

or hungover

or all three.

If you're drinking from a glass it must have ice.

It should have lemon, which helps temper the sweetness.

Do not!

Drink it with a straw.

Drink it warm.

Drink it completely flat. A bit flat is fine.

Swish it round your mouth.

Read the calories.

280. Philanthropy

Every year, the two co-owners of the company I work for give each of their employees £1,000, which we then give away to the charities of our choice. It's to their credit that they continue with this sweet and generous scheme, given that there are now 32 people working here...

Everybody who works here gives money to charity on a regular basis. Of course we do, we only have charities as clients and we're all a bit brown-ricey, so it's to be expected. But a grand is a nice wodge of cash - you can really do some good with that.

In a couple of hours, we'll all gather in a room to tell our colleagues how we spent the money and why we chose those particular charities. Here, for your benefit, dear readers, is how I spent mine:

I gave £200 to the Royal National Lifeboat Institution. I spend a lot of time by the sea, and a certain amount on or in it. I've called the Lifeboat myself a few times and stood with my heart in my throat until the familiar bright orange boat came streaking along the horizon. The sea is a remorseless, implacable force. It doesn't care about your pathetic puny human body, or your pathetic puny boat. Get tired swimming? Tough. Lose a rope or get smashed by a wave? Tough. Lose power? Tough. Here's some freezing, salty, rough water. Here's a riptide. Here's a huge expanse of nothing but certain death, and fathoms for you to fall.

In the UK, the people who'll do their best to rescue you from the sea are all volunteers. They don't get paid to come out in a storm, or in the middle of the night in the middle of a gale. But they will. Go to the RNLI website and watch some of the videos. Talk about bloody heroes.

I gave £300 to Magic Breakfast. They give children breakfast before school. If they didn't, these kids would sometimes go from lunchtime to lunchtime with nothing in their tummies. Try learning your times tables while you're starving. I had enough trouble and Mum gave us Ready Brek.

I gave £250 to the WRVS. They make sure that isolated and vulnerable older people get out of their houses and are looked after inside them. This one's for Granny, and I was proud to give the money in her name.

And I gave £250 to Action for Children, to support a young carers support group in South London. These kids look after sick or otherwise incapacitated family members. They give up their childhoods to look after the people who should be looking after them. Then very often they get bullied at school and on the streets. The support group gives them a respite, helps them catch up on school-work, gives them access to counsellors and other kids who are going through the same thing. They also get some self-defence lessons. Take that, bullies.

It was a pleasure and a privilege to play junior philanthropist - and I've set up direct debits for all those charities now, too. Every little helps, after all.

279. I got 5 on it, by Luniz

TUNE!!

278. Photos from space

Commander Chris Hadfield is currently orbiting the earth in a spaceship. And while he's up there he's taking photographs of things and beaming them back down to Twitter. And I can tell you that if you've spent three weeks working more than 12 hour days in a small room with no natural light in the winter - those photographs provide some valuable perspective.

277. Spotify playlists

We have music playing all day in the Studio, so we have a number of playlists on Spotify. We all add to them and they change depending on who's listening to what and liking what and people's moods – which makes the mix eclectic and sometimes strange.

The Studio playlists led me to discover Spotify properly for myself, and I'm a convert. In fact, I'm even thinking of going Unlimited. Yeah, totally. It's like having all of the music in the world in your pocket. Which is quite something, I'm sure you'll agree.

276. Nicola Upson

I have my friend Katie to thank for introducing me to Nicola Upson's work - so it's Katie you should talk to about the fact that all I want to do is read.

I went off crime novels about 15 years ago when Patricia Cornwell left her hero's face in a fridge - but these are of a much gentler persuasion. The writing is zippy and fresh and there's a contemporary element that brings the mid-thirties setting to life.

She's only written four so far so I'm reading slowly, but I hope she's scribbling as fast as she can...

275. Spring

It's not here yet. But it keeps showing us a little bit of leg, which is remarkably titillating and wonderful. The expectation is all with this particular season, as all too often April and May will just be wet and dull - but at least the days will not be short and dark and there probably won't be snow. And for all those things we say thank you and welcome.

274. When God Was A Rabbit

This aggravatingly wonderful and beautifully written debut novel by Sarah Winman is pure joy on the page. It's funny and sad and pin-sharp and warm and dark and I wanted to pull it over me like a duvet. It has given me inspiration and challenge and the great satisfaction of reading a book for the second time and finding yet more within it.

One day, if I'm lucky, I'll write a book as good as this one. Til then, I'll keep it by me - as a sort of talisman.

273. Bags and Wallets

The title of this blog post alone will have been enough to make Herself and the Parent laugh - I guarantee it. They're probably thinking it's about time I confessed to this particular predilection.

I am a bagandwalletaholic. It's true. And what's peculiar is that the bags are all similar and the wallets are all similar.

I'm searching for the perfect 'one', you see.

Rucksacks, I have a few. Yes. Then again, too few to mention. What can I say? Buying bags and wallets makes me happy because I don't have to try them on. And you can have lots of them without feeling guilty.

That's my excuse, and I'm sticking to it.

272. Christmas Carols

My little primary school was attached to a posh church (not physically), which explains why we had a sung eucharist every Wednesday, an annual Easter play that was epic in its ambition and portent, and spent months getting ready for Christmas.

I'm bitter about the Easter thing because I always had to be the narrator and wasn't ever allowed to be Jesus, which caused much junior teeth gnashing. I'm such a diva.

Anyway, must try to move on from these early setbacks.

The school tradition was that every Christmas the top class sang the descant. Which, you know, is the high harmony sung during some carols - Hark the Herald Angels Sing and Once in Royal David's City being notable examples. They're not complicated, but they have to be right or the whole thing descends into chaos. And it can sound wonderful. That last year was fun.

I can't sing the descant any more, because I'm now a baritone (or something scarily similar). But carols are still a great pleasure. I failed to get myself along to a carol concert this year and I regret it. Christmas wasn't the same without a blast of singing (and, possibly, God - but that's a more troubling question) and burbling along in the car is not a satisfactory alternative.

Ideally, I'd like:

A pretty church (St James', Piccadilly, is a good one)
A proper vicar (no happy clappies) but with a sense of humour
A choir (but no ruffles or rolled 'r's)
Some readings (John Julius Norwich if we're being proper, or Spike Milligan for entertainment)
All the classic carols
and
In the Bleak Midwinter - the proper version

So maybe the next few Christmases will see me go on a search for that elusive combination. I suppose I could always whistle the descant - the choir would love that...

271. New Year's Resolution

I don't usually bother with New Year's resolutions. I feel bad enough about something or other most of the time, why add fuel to the flames?

But this year I have one resolution that I am determined to keep.

This blog WILL end in 2013. 

I only have 94 entries to go! And those of you still clinging on deserve some closure. So take my hand, and over the next weeks we will walk to the edge of the page...