leftovers

It's nearly three and I haven't even begun to feel tired; after polishing off half a bottle of Colombier during the afternoon, and spending a rather lengthy period of time over an exquisite dinner, Japanese at a jazzy place called Nobu, before drifting through the met bar (not my thing), I'd expected to feel a little more sleepy than I do. Alas.

In any case, back in the warm and dry; the season's festivities are over, the living space is fairly clean, and almost everything has returned to normal in the Robinson household. The giant redwood in the basement notwithstanding. As usual, a hundred and three photographs to document the proceedings - patchily distributed - and I've finally brought myself around to looking at them. This one I liked; it features the huggable monkey-girl responsible for my continued existence, foiling, as she did, one of my many spectacular attempts to nix myself. Sweet guardian of the demented.

And this one, taken earlier today, highlights one of the most novel pairs of socks I've ever received in a Christmas stocking; I don't mean the hallucinogenic coloured stripes or the glitter - lookit, toes! I used to sense something sinister in mittens for their lack of fingers. Well, it works the other way too; I look down and feel like a minion of the underlord. Delighted.