majorarcana

The days leading up to Christmas were a dizzying haze of mostly pleasant parties and pubs, and the days immediately after a blur of transiting between relatives in the north country. Christmas day itself was by contrast an oasis of calm, spent lazily unwrapping presents, gorging on gamey meat and wine, and of course, watching Christmas telly. The Next Doctor was… it was all right, wasn’t it? I mean I would have preferred it if some regular pleb hadn’t been able to pwn the Cybermen quite so easily, and Dervla Kirwan had turned out to be the Rani or something, but overall I actually kind of liked it. Christmas truly is a time for miracles.

The new bloke… well, let’s just wait and see, eh? Also, the less said about the BBC adaptation of The 39 Steps, the better.

Spent New Year in Norfolk, in what has now become something of a traditional bolt hole. Long walks, good food, plenty of booze. I only realised a few months ago that one of my favourite short stories, The Windmill by Conrad Williams, is set in Cley, one of the villages we tend to spend a lot of time in whilst we’re up there, despite the fact it’s stated outright in the text. This made our visit to the Mill somewhat more ominous this time, although fortunately I remained on good terms with the girlfriend and avoided being skinned alive. Holiday reading was provided by two collections of Robert Aickman stories I picked up before Christmas. Aickman has been OOP for so long, I think the last time I must have read him was in one of those Pan Book of Horror things they used to put out when I was a teen, but he’s been name-checked by so many authors I admire I’ve wanted to read more for quite some time. Both volumes have recently been reprinted as part of the Faber Finds line, a POD initiative by a big publisher to bring long OOP stuff back into print. Aickman didn’t disappoint, and I’ll certainly pick up The Wine Dark Sea in due course, but bloody hell, the line could certainly do with an editor to correct the presumably now decades old typos.

I realise the view that Christmas is too good for children might well be seen as controversial in some quarters, but those who inhabit them have not experienced the pram-congested hell that was the Twelfth Night celebration on Bankside. I mean, does anyone actually believe their children enjoy that sort of thing? All the ones I had the misfortune to stand near just seemed bored or cold, and weren’t at all coy about letting everyone else know the fact. To be fair the miserable little bags of snot did seem to like the Mummers Play, but that didn’t really excuse all the shrieking, snivelling and caterwauling whilst we waited for the Holly Man to arrive on the Thames. Parents - think carefully about what you’re inflicting on the world when you take your child out. It was amusing to see the Lord Mayor of London chatting amiably to a pagan fertility spirit, however.

Caught the last night of the Nunkie Theatre Company’s production Oh Whistle… at the Barons’ Court Theatre, a performance of two M.R. James stories by R M Lloyd Parry. Brilliantly observed and nuanced performance by Parry, that really evoked the atmosphere and dread of the original texts. Fantastic way to bring the festive season to a close.

Luke Haines has written his memoirs. First must-read of the year then.