Jeeves, where is my tea?

Good morning, and thank you all for coming. I would like to read a short statement, after which I will attempt to answer any questions.

I want to apologise for my actions today. I have let myself down, I have let my readers down and perhaps most terribly of all, I have let London down. You see, I have already written a blog for this week. However, it was somewhat vitriolic, and consisted mostly of me railing against the Conservative Party and the Right in general, and being angry. Was this any blog to start the year on? No, I said. Let this be consigned to a less auspicious month, such as February.

Then, in a rare moment of inspiration, I was walking home late one night, and was gifted an opening line.

"Wind whistles through the tops of the poplar trees. Water gurgles in drains and sewers. The distant noise of the A-road, the city breathing out, quieter than my own breath. Blend these things any other way and they become the sounds of some cheap horror film. But like this, walking home in the dark, they are as much home as the brick walls I live in".

It was going to be an ode to my city, a requiem for my holiday; a fitting end to a month spent in the city I love with people I love, written on my last day there. But, tragically, it was not to be.

You see, my mornings in the holidays generally go something like this: I nudge consciousness at around half past eight. I rise, and shamble to the shower. One dose of mint shower gel and hot water later I saunter, clean shaven and immaculately coiffed, down to the kitchen, where I put the kettle on and make the best toast I have ever eaten from yesterday's baker's bread. Then I sit at the table and spend half an hour or so perusing the papers, contemplating the day ahead and generally pondering the great philosophical questions of the day (such as, shall I make more toast?). My family are, by this point, departed - gone to work or school or college. And if they use most of the milk, well, they generally leave enough for my cup of tea. Like Bertie Wooster, I am not much use early in the mornings, but this doesn't matter.

Not so on Fridays.

Fridays are my mum's day off.

Now I wish to make it clear at this point, that I do love my mum. She is amazingly supportive, a frankly stupendous cook, and manages to look after the three of us and my dad while still holding down a hard job four days a week. I'm not entirely sure how she does it, and she has my deep and perpetual admiration for it all (particularly for her lasagne, which I have never been able to replicate satisfactorily). But I'm not sure she understands mornings from my perspective.

I knew that, like the Higgs-Boson particle, 7.30am must exist, as it is one of those times which hypothetically must fill the void between 12 and 8.30. However, I will admit I was somewhat surprised to be woken at this point by a rap on the door and a request I put the bins out. Well, never say never. I had said I would, so I rose, pulling on my trusty dressing gown and slippers, and proceeded to carry recycling and bins through to the street, helped by my dad. No problem. And then, when I was done, I sat at the kitchen table in the midst of the hustle and bustle and waited for the room to stop spinning and my vision to clear. Then my family proceed to give me the third degree. What was I doing today? Fugh. Eeep sh'mmech. Had I remembered to put out all the bins? L'lybrent'd. What are you doing for lunch? Gl;hpoiuhfewuodckmnbredjkaqgsm.

Coherent? I was eloquence itself.

My family left, and I proceeded to get dressed. Dear reader, it did not go well. I attempted to put hair gel on my face, and aftershave in my hair. The toast lay forgotten in the toaster while I wrestled with boxes and half remembered errands (three half remembered requests do not an orderly list of duties make). And I have only just sat down with my tea. The start to the day has put me in a proper funk. I still have packing to do, and I need to see a man about a fish (I am not making this up). This does not bode well.

So I apologise for failing to produce a blog which did London the justice it deserved. All I can say in my defence is this: I am not a morning person.

Happy New Year.

London, January 2011