To distil the goings on of the last few weeks into a coherent post would be difficult.
To be honest, I'm not sure I remember everything that's happened. Several 4 or 5 am finishes followed by 9am starts, the odd day off to hibernate, endless takeaway pizzas, whiskies, beers, fine wine and enough espresso to knock out the most stalwart Milanese. Then there's the gingerbread lattés bolstered with fine cognac, sushi, Thai curry, Bengali curry, Afghani curry, roast venison, fine cheese, gallons of port, the odd sherry, a criminally corked Burgundy and many, many late night drams of Laphroaig Quarter Cask.
I've had moments of heroism, moments of cowardice and moments of apathy. Rage, glee and bewilderment set my heart racing, sinking and singing in turn. Sometimes my brain refused to stop, sometimes it refused to start.
My shoulder's been cried on, and I've held back my own tears.
I danced on tables, singing into a small umbrella.
I drove 13 hours when it should only have been 8 and a half.
I made it to London though, and here I am.
And now the tree sits naked, for there are no lights. You have to do the lights first. Without them it sits naked, boxes of decorations surround it, unopened and waiting.