"Das ist ein Unikum,"

exclaimed Joseph II on first tasting the Hungarian digestif in 1790.

"Dear Christ," I exclaimed on first tasting it, "that's utterly revolting."

"God, I feel terrible," I exclaimed rather more quietly the next morning as the Unicum (yes, really) wreaked havoc on my stomach, along with the other ingredients of the Monday night's arbitrary and enthusiastic boozing. Digestif my arse. All it helped me digest was my stomach lining.

Fortunately work on Tuesday was rather quiet, and it crawled by more easily as the day went on. TM got together for a...patchy practise that night. Had it been an album, it would have been the canonical difficult second album. Everything was present and correct: everyone turned up more or less on time; we played reasonably well, but the ol' magic just wasn't there. Christmas fatigue, I think. Still, we got another couple of new tunes (blatant crowd-pleasing ones as well :) sorted, and the gig looks to be on track.

Christmas Day was a damn sight less exciting than last year, although I was fairly happy for that to be the case. Ruth was working until early Christmas Day morning, so we drove back around 11 am and spent the day lazing around our parent's house, opening presents, eating and so on. I scarpered back to Edinburgh on Boxing Day to avoid the usual family merry-go-round that starts on the 26^th and lasts until Hogmanay.

The last two days have been a pleasurable blur of GTA, leftover turkey sandwiches and laughably execrable holiday season TV. All play and no work makes your host a dull boy, and I'm revelling in it, I tell you.

Next up: I spend five days straight watching Pimp My Ride and genuinely enjoying it.