Santa's feeling rather odd tonight.

As Rachel has kindly pointed out, I have been neglecting this blog (again). In fact, I have been neglecting writing all together, making me feel like the snow-fed grit beside the roads. There simply has not been the time to put the words together, but I feel all the worse for it.
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Guilt:

Feels like quicksand, syrupy against your fingertips as you flounder, cold as it oozes in between the folds of cloth you wear.

Sounds like a pin dropping to a kitchen floor for all eternity.

Tastes like strong black tea, etched upon your taste-buds for hours after the fact, its remnants bitter and harsh.

Smells like fresh cut grass on a frosted morning, the air damp and clean enough to carry the green aroma for miles, a smell so pungently beautiful that you’ll always feel inadequate, as though you don’t deserve to be there in the moment.

Looks like an inkblot, spidery as it expands even beyond the page, indelible and irrevocable no matter how hard and long you stare in horror.
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I do have reasons (as usual) for not turning up at the page. I now have tickets for word-wide exploration, and with my passage suddenly reality, I have to get organised. Admittedly, this has been stunted somewhat by the realisation that I’m going Out There, for a Very Long Time; a mix of elated, inspired freezing terror.

I have been writing tiny pieces, in a search for the Christmas Tales that make the grade this year. So far, 98% of it is shit, and I’m running out of time.

In other news (I’m sure there was more than this to write about, before I sat down to actually do it) I went to my first football match today, with a lad I have been working with; Leeds vs. Leicester City at Elland Road. Leeds won 2:1. And I surprised myself by quite enjoying it; I thank The Boy for making the transition pain-free and entertaining, despite his frequent pleas for alcohol.

Oh, and I bought one of these today; fascinating, in an Eeyore’s-Pot kind of a way. It’s my new favourite piece of travel-kit.