It’s funny how you meet your other. I don’t mean the one you have babies with. The one you vow to love and adore and never leave. I mean your other other. The person that’s so much like you they could be you if you weren’t around to do it yourself.

I met Mallorie when I was ten. We both wore cowlicks and a sleepy look in our eyes and that was enough for people to say we were alike. But she was the quiet girl in the corner and I was the loudmouth by the monkey bars so until Lake Lure ‘00 I couldn’t see it.

Since then we’ve interrogated one another under the bells of medieval cathedrals, talked life and love in the rain by the River Thames and ate hot dogs in lazy old Appalachian coal towns. Yesterday we planned our New Years’ Resolutions. It began something like this…

Me: “I’ve gained a good 6 and a half kilo - at least - since Thanksgiving”
Mallorie: “That’s nothing. The other day, I was tapping my foot on the floor, and I felt my back jiggle.”

…And ended with a commitment to hold one another accountable every Monday morning with a measuring tape and a set of scales. We’re also doing the Great Manchester Run in May. Only she doesn’t know it yet. (p.s. So are you Steph.)

Now your turn. New Years Resolutions anyone?

“I could read his prose on salary, but not Jane’s. Jane is entirely impossible. It seems a great pity that they allowed her to die a natural death.

Everytime I read ‘Pride and Prejudice’ I want to dig her up and beat her over the skull with her own shin-bone.”

–Mark Twain

Traditionally made, seasonal, fresh cheese makes me sick - as a dog. I love it and eat it anyway. Slabs of it. Throw in some red, a few grapes and a nice thick finger of fruit cake, and who cares about migraines or Christmas dinner?

It made me fat in college. Not real fat, but fat enough. Then I moved abroad and in with a group of university students. One was an actor. His girlfriend - a chic named Luisa. Luisa Walker was thin and gorgeous. Blonde lines and graceful angles. She’s an investment banker these days. Or at least she’s suppose to be. I haven’t seen her in years so … who knows. She use to do stomach crunches in the living room while I ate Gruyere and macaroni in the kitchen. I’m sure I had the better time of it, but she was throwing on leather trousers while I was growing out of my replacement denim (i.e. fat pants). I kept thinking “tomorrow” and wondered if my aunt’s “I MAY BE FAT, BUT YOU’RE UGLY, AND I CAN DIET” tshirt held true for me too. (The aunt was once a cow, who lost loads of weight. Her skinny friends were still skinny. But they were still ugly too. The aunt was a stunner.)

That was five years and three personal trainers ago. I’m still not in the fighting shape my brother is. But I’m determined. These days I weight train (no bulk thank you) when I’m depressed; I don’t eat curry; and I only swallow cheese at holiday parties - where I wash down blocks of Brie, with Mallorie’s punch, and giggle. I’ve done it every night this week. And I’m getting ready to do it again. *Bliss*

Just a quickie, and not really a blog post at all, just a yikes! type thing. Dunno how I missed it - must have been all that quivering and avarice - whatever - but Judith Regan got sacked on Friday.

The original story went something like this: HarperCollins let the slugger go none too ceremoniously - according to the New York Times Regan’s office found out via press release - for her part in the shameless promotion of O.J. Simpson’s “If I did it - Here’s How” insult.

But on Monday the Times revamped it a bit, claiming Murdoch handed down the order himself after Regan allegedly rattled off anti-Semitic remarks to Jane Friedman, HarperCollins’s president and chief executive. (Thanks to Howie for the links: NYTimes, Associated Press and USA Today)

Christmas trees and lights, his mother’s ornaments - long, fat and Victorian - wreaths of garland and holly berry winding around door frames and banisters. Wrapping paper and bells jingle belling. Nat King Cole.

Warmed mince pies covered in brandy butter - the kind that clears your head. Sparkling wine and sherry in thick little goblets, lead and heavy. Chocolate truffles - Belgian, flaked. Cheese and smoked salmon and olives and celery. Drinks of cinnamon.

Midnight Mass, smothered in spirit. Candles, mangers and myrrh. The smell of Christmas carols. Deep breaths. Adestes Fidelis. The tingle of it on your skin. Sing: “Children come to the children’s king.” Holy Name.

Christmas Day, presents hid inside the tree. By the fireplace. Morning porridge with honey and almonds. Back into the cold. And the warm again. Turkey and table gifts. Stuffing balls and sausages wrapped in bacon. Christmas pudding, all aflame, heavy cream. Christmas Crackers. Christmas Crowns.

My aunt will try to have me hung drawn and quartered for this…but I’ve never been a Diana fan. Pity the way she died and all - absolutely - but I’ve just never shared in my country’s obsession with the British Monarchy. I do, however, feel it’s adoration - more celebrity infatuation really - for the two young princes.

I use to giggle over Wills. Even thought about doing some postgraduate study at St Andrews - oh yes I did! And sure, he’s looking lovely and full of hair these days. But let’s face it. Harry’s hotter.

Doesn’t look like The Elder will be dancing at the Concert for Diana. Harry, on the other hand, will be “…kicking around…” in style.

P.S. He’s also giving out the mobile number of a certain brother of his.

Have a listen.

This morning I donned shades and neroli oil. Paid a visit to the Christmas markets. I held my nose against the German bratwurst and breathed in the smell of mulled wine. A Dutchman tried to sell me some cheese. A pair of tiny wooden shoes. Then Santa asked “What do you want for Christmas … little girl?” I was walking by his grotto and he burped and winked when he said it. I didn’t sit on his lap. But I did rattle off my list.

1. Diptyque Bois Cire Candle (Yup. Again.)
2. Tahitian Pearl Earrings (Because I have none.)
3. Trish McEvoy’s Little Black Card (Downsizing’s Good.)
4. Les Jolies Choses Handmade Knee Socks (Black Please.)
5. Bare Escentuals Mineral Veil (Still haven’t tried it.)
6. Vosges Exotic Truffles (Crack for the choco-phyle.)
7. Aspinal Bound Writing Journal (I love the smell of paper.)
8. Prada Suede Platform Slingbacks (This time brown.)
9. Bliss Portolano Cashmere Slippers (Warm feet help me think.)
10. Nokia L’Amour 7370 Mobile Phone (Motorolas are lame.)

Champagne, canapes and chocolate. Of course.

“We plunged into the cornucopia quivering with desire and the ecstasy of unbridled avarice.” - A Christmas Story

My first crush was a boy named Bobby. He was five and looked just like Bo Duke. My second, Ralphie.

I couldn’t have been more than 8 when he first pummeled Scut Farkus, ratted out his buddy Schwartz for no real reason and left Flick stuck to the flag pole. I forgot about The General Lee and went to bed dreaming of coke-bottle glasses and soap connoisseurs. That same winter I built a snow man and named him R Parker. My sister saw through the disguise and laughed. I didn’t care.

As I grew older my love affair became less about Ralphie and more about the guy who brought him to life. No. Not the Oldsmobile Man. The White Sox Fan.

Shep was born to narrate. To tell a story that keeps on telling. I can’t say how many copies of “In God We Trust, All Others Pay Cash” I’ve bought throughout the years. But I’m sure it ranks right up there with the number of handbags I own.

So yeah. It’s that time again. Time to introduce the heathens - those not familiar with The Church of Jean Shepherd - to Ralphie and the Old Man. (Yes my friends. They do exist.)

I’ll be putting A Christmas Story on 24 hour loop beginning Saturday. And I won’t get tired of it.

Not one bit.

I use to take some degree of pride in never having set foot in the Smokey Mountains. I preferred Paris to Pigeon Forge and Nuremberg to that Gatlin place. I was awful like that. Anyway, a few weeks ago I had to pay a visit to the University of Tennessee’s School of Veterinary Medicine after hearing on strict authority they were the best of the best. (As a side, The Small Animal Clinic there was far superior, and in better form than any NHS Hospital I’ve seen in England. Ever.) The patient in question was my mother’s 2-year-old 3-pound Yorkshire Terrier, Muffy. Yes. Muffy. The prognosis - bad.

Muffy has both congenital and acquired portosystemic liver shunts. And even though shunts are what the folks at Tennessee do best they weren’t able to help her. At all. So, her days are numbered…drastically. She’s a bouncy little thing most of the time, but this could change at any moment. Arrangements have already been made with the local vet to attend upon my mother’s home when the time comes.

I’m not really an animal person, rumours to the contrary aside. But this even breaks my heart.