Jesus Christmas.

What a farce - work has descended into chaotic wailing and gnashing of teeth with one day to go before everyone gets the hell out of Dodge and stays as far from it as humanly possible for the next week and a half. Your correspondent, of course, is still here, confronted with a Sisyphyean task in clearing the decks before rushing to the shops to complete my typically half-baked Christmas shopping and then scrabbling to catch the last possible train home.

I'm feeling particularly Office Space today.

The work Christmas bash didn't even come up with the goods this year; everyone was on mostly good form and there was a slightly wistful nod to my old days as the office's nominal enfant terrible (suggesting a couple of pints on a school night sends thrills of displeasure through the management here) as I won the Golden Colon award for forgetting to turn up one day, but even that failed to really put a shine on things. Also, the white wine tasted like cough syrup, but that's neither here nor there.

Anyway, a few days off will no doubt sort me out. And I've had all of two days detox in preparation for some more seasonal excess. Have a good Christmas, dear readers!