I missed out on seeing Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire on Friday night, due to a badly-timed computer disaster and some god-awful traffic. However I managed to meet up with Ms Snazzles, Mme Moodles, Lady Lilikens, Ms Jellyfish and Televisions Kynan's Barker for (more than) a few drinks afterwards, so the evening was by no means a total loss. When our merry bunch (which by then included Mu's beau Mr Andrew) disbanded some time after 3am, I found myself wandering the streets, fruitlessly searching for a taxi that would deposit me home. None was to be found. Wandering vaguely towards Flinders St Station, I was suddenly accosted by a well-dressed but alarmingly uncouth young man who began demanding I give him spare change. He was obviously intoxicated (but hey, so was I) and actually started roughly shoving me as I walked down the street, despite my protests that I was just as poor and destitute as he. Strangely I was in no way intimdated by this show of testosterone-fueled insolence - partly, no doubt, because I was too drunk and tired and pissed-off-by-the-lack-of-taxis to care *dutch-courage munkey* and partly because this fucker looked about 17, and even though I have never so much as thrown a punch in my life, I could probably make him cry just by sitting on him.
In this dark and lonely hour, the CBD is at war with itself. You can taste the uneasy silence in the air as, on every street corner, rival factions face-off with bared teeth and brandished claws. Suddenly, the quiet is shattered as an innocent yellow taxi rounds the corner. A war-cry goes up. The opposing forces scramble, shout, rugby-tackle the opposition to the ground, hurl themselves among speeding traffic setting off flares and fireworks, desperately trying to be the first to attract the attention of the cab. As this bloodthirsty struggle unfolded at every turn, I realised my beloved city had become a remorseless world of kill or be-killed... or walk home. So I opted for the latter. I walked a long way. I was not happy. I finally managed to hail a cab, on Punt Road. I was tired when I got home.
On Saturday it was off to the house of patermunkey to "babysit" Ms Cait and ElectroBoy. Taking care of my siblings is always a relaxed affair, essentially involving watching kids' movies or TV shows, buying McDonalds, engaging in board-games, running baths, helping Ms Cait tend to the needs of her Sims (or helping to destroy them all in a terrifying inferno, depending on her mood), and saying "Stoppit, Poppit, Foppit, Nyoppit, Cloppit..." at each other ad nauseum (a tradition only my sister and I truly understand). *slightly-deranged-older-brother munkey* Oh and I think I'm developing an unhealthy crush on Spongebob Squarepants. Help me.
The Munkey Family got well into the Christmas spirit on Sunday morning, setting up the tree and hanging decorations on anything that would hold still long enough. It's nice that as life changes, as people move on and move away, some traditions still hold-up. I don't care that it's become a tacky, commercialised orgy of capitalism and cynicism. I remember what Christmas was when I was a kid, and I refuse to let it go. I don't care if I'm depressingly, irreversibly expanding in years and kilograms. At this time of year, I will flout all sense of decorum, kick my heels up and behave like a kid again (only with a much higher blood-alcohol level).
Vale for now, dear readers, and remember:
In Heaven, everything is fine. In Heaven, everything is fine. You've got your good things. And I've got mine.
Clockwise: someone I think is hot but shouldn't (coz he's too young) ; where the fuck were all of you on Friday night? ; someone else I think is hot but shouldn't (coz he's a yellow cartoon sea-sponge) ; 'tis the season to be fat and boozy! fa-la la-la laaaa la-la la laaaa!
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