Sunday, 27 December 2015

My heart is where its always been, my head is somewhere in-between

Reviews of the year. This small gap of listlessness (try saying that after Christmas lunch) between the mid-Winter solstice and our collective, depressive return to work in January, seem to generate no end of them.

Here's the Tourmalet again. Yawn.

Some people even start them in advance, those truly awful missives in our Christmas cards. They must take some crafting to produce, working out the right order to place your trivia in. But they are a dying breed, mainly because Facebook has so successfully inveigled its way into our addictive souls. The online, constant version of the unwanted, and let's face it, quite dull news, is now so constant and pervasive, that it has made those despised annual circulars a thing of the past.

But not in a good way.

Christmas itself is, I'm happy to say, a pagan festival. Only a bit watered-down. Even Arthur Pendragon (real name Timothy) when he appears at Stonehenge every solstice, looks like a cross between a trainspotter and the chair of the local Am-dram society. In days of old we would have had much more riotous behaviour going on in our halls and hovels, although, to be fair, a lot of this is now transposed to so-called "Black Friday" out on the high street.

Just like apple pie on an Audax. In Wales. Only more so.

Solstice celebrations consisted of riding to work three days in a row in totally shit weather, followed by prodigious eating and trying to match my teenage son in the sleeping department. The latter task was a big "ask" in which I of course singularly failed. A bit like the Avalon sunrise in June. Near Glastonbury. Predictable.

So I hope you will be glad to know that I'm neither going to subject you to tales of what a great year I have had, or about my plans for "moving into another space" (puke NOW). Both are very, very, interesting of course. But only to me. Even Mrs Mendip Rouleur, whose job is the feigning of interest in whatever I'm talking about, is already bored, so I'll not inflict it via this forum on you. You'll have to talk to me.

Predictable metaphor alert. Bridges.


I did buy my dearest some good presents for Christmas, one of which is called, "The Book of Answers". On consulting it about whether I would achieve my plans for next year, its very insightful response was:

"Allow yourself to rest first"
How did it know? So better than reading all about it on here, or there, or everywhere, come and ride the real thing with me.
Happy new year. I don't have to explain all of it do I?