This is an odd place to work. Half of the people here have nothing to do now and are, understandably, getting louder and more excitable with each passing second. Some are playing music, others are eating Christmas confectionary. The other half are working like crazy fools to ensure that a few days off will be possible. I am pretending I am in this second group but, as you can read, I've got time to blog so I must have the bulk of my gibberish written. A good few minutes were spent penning my final column of the year - an 'hilarious' Hull-centric month-by-month set of predictions for 2005. I rest easy in the knowledge that noone but my immediate family will bother reading it, because it is well-hidden between pages containing births, deaths and marriages. I doubt that the editor even knows it is there - he's certainly never mentioned it to me in the two conversations we have each year. Why do I bother? Well, the rest of my week usually revolves around writing stories about cats being stuck up trees. To think I used to be an arts specialist and still am an obnoxious reviewer for mighty trade paper The Stage. I take solace in the fact that the weekly rag I strut my stuff for has 274,000 readers.
Last minute shopping awaits. I am off for a pre-Christmas drink with a colleague before heading to a CD store for some stocking fillers. This will, I imagine, be hell, as 274,000 Hull residents (hang on, I see a correlation there. Are the ABC having a lazy week?) will be doing the very same thing at exactly the same time.
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