Embarrassing picture alert

Merry Christmas, you lovely lovely people.

A few things to say today. First of all I should announce the results of the 2010 poll, which was a raging success. With a whopping 70 votes, it got a better turn-out than the last series of Big Brother. So, without further ado, let me announce that the winner for the pronunciation of 2010 waaasss... (drumroll...) 'twenty-ten', with 44 votes!

And, sadly for my flatmate, 'two-thousand-and-ten' got only a pathetic 24 votes. Sorry Sandeep.

I hope you're all having a wonderful day. I'm proud to say that despite a migraine, an eye infection, two heavy colds and the cat having a fit during Christmas lunch, the Crisells have managed to triumph over adversity and have a very nice time. I've spent the whole day drinking champagne and playing with my nephew's toy garage, while alternating between wearing a really tasteful spangly Santa hat and these very attractive antlers:


Don't be jealous - some of us just have a natural elegance.

There are lots of things I want for 2010 - not just a MacBook, and the incredible dress I saw in Stylist two months ago, which is going to be in shops in January but will probably sell out before I get anywhere near it - but serious things too.

I want my family to be happy and healthy and have a good year with a minimum of stress. I want to make progress in my career. I want to sort out all the mess in my flat and turn it into somewhere I feel a bit more proud of. I want the problems at British Airways to be resolved in a way that means my gorgeous friend Jenni can (a) keep her job, (b) keep loving her job and (c) afford to live. I want Sandeep to be offered a fantastic job when she qualifies as a solicitor. I want Claire to have some well-deserved time off and come and get drunk in London with me. I want Tim to have the good year he truly deserves, and I want Denis to have the time of his life in Australia - but then I want him to come home before I miss him too much.

And I want all of you to enjoy twenty-ten too. Much love from me, your reindeer friend.

xxxx

It's poll o'clock

Yes you heard: poll o'clock.

Sandeep and I have just had an argument about next year, or more specifically about what we're going to call it. 2010 in writing of course, that's easy. But I want to plump for "twenty-ten" (less effort) and she wants to go for "two-thousand-and-ten" ("less wanky", she said, before elaborating "a tool would say twenty-ten").

She feels very strongly on this. "You might have to say twenty-ten if everyone else says it," I pointed out.

"I won't," she said firmly. "I will never say it. I refuse."

There was a pause. "It's like the 'two-thousand-and-twelve Olympics'," she added.

"But that's called 'London twenty-twelve'," I replied.

"No," she said. "Just no."

This argument's threatening to run and run, and there's only one way to settle this: a poll. It's just up there. Off you go.

My talented friend

I have an American friend called Josh Parish. He's a writer from Tulsa, Oklahoma, but like most of my American friends I met him in New York.

Josh has a certain presence. He's fiercely intelligent, humble and kind - he's someone I admire very much, and having spent time with his friends and family and wife, I know I'm not alone. Recently he sent me this link to him reading some of his own fiction. It's about 15 minutes long and it's moving, and evocative, and exciting. Knowing that friends of mine can write like this makes me question what the hell I'm doing, which is probably a constructive thing.

I highly recommend you give it a listen. Just go to the link and click on '4_Josh_Cast_1109.mp3'.

The Better Mood

The last week has been a bit crap... and quite a lot better at the same time. You can therefore be confident that you won't want to slit your wrists by the time you get to the end of this post (unlike the last two).

I've had a little bout of what I assume is laryngitis. By which I mean, I had a crappy cold, and then suddenly I completely lost my voice on Saturday night and it still hasn't really come back. I had no idea that I loved talking so much until I couldn't do it any more. I mean, I really love chatting. To spend four days having to make the choice between remaining mute or doing a really painful Marge Simpson impression has been tough. It has also meant that I've had to cancel a phone interview I was doing with Sarah Beeny tomorrow, because I didn't want her to feel alarmed at the thought that something from hell was on the other end of the line. This is very disappointing for (a) me, because I'd love to speak to her and (b) my mother, who has stated several times that she'd be willing to swap one of her existing daughters for The Beeny if the opportunity should arise.

So it hasn't been a week full of joy, on the whole. But on the other hand, I think something's changed in my brain in the last few days. I think I'm sick of being miserable. The autumn was so full of problems and bad news that I think I've actually run out of worry. I have no worry left. I'm worriless.

And now it's December - no longer autumn but winter, and the month of Christmas parties, mulled wine, and sparkly dresses that are probably a waste of money because you'll never wear them next year. This weekend I'm having five of my best geordie girls round for Christmas drinks and I am going to declare it Officially The Beginning Of The Festive Season. I've bought a terrible Christmas CD that I will force them to listen to, and I'm going to dig out my most garish fairy lights to decorate the lounge.

Then later on we're all getting in a taxi and heading off to a party, probably cackling like a coven of pissed witches. It's going to be pretty similar in theme to the nights we've had every Christmas for the last ten years, and it's going to be bloody BRILLIANT.

So there you go. No more doom and gloom. It's Christmas time and we're going to enjoy it if it kills us. Now pass me those mince pies and let's get cracking.