Twenty-ten

Hi! It's twenty-ten, or two thousand and ten. Or two thousand ten, if you don't like limes. I think I shall pronounce it twenty-ten. Fiona Bruce does, I noticed.

I had a good Christmas. I hope you did too. I stayed at the folks' house in old KL, saw old friends, and generally just chilled out. London's calling though, as Joe Strummer once sang. The fam are missing me. I'm itching to go back, and the only thing stopping me isn't emotional. Mum won't miss me that much. It's physical. It's the weather.

Now I don't mind the snow for a few days, people at home, go sledding, et cetera. But after the excitement, you realise that it's neither here nor there. It's a nightmare hindered by the council's categorical refusal to grit pavements because someone might slip because there's no fucking ice there. I was planning on running today and now I can't go quicker than eight minute miling without breaking an arm. The track's shut. It's cold. The trains probably won't be running. The Spurs game is off. I'll probably get snowballs thrown at me when I do finally get back to London. At least the cricket's a nice restbite.

Now I've jinxed it. We'll probably lose the last test. Sheer brilliance by Paul Collingwood, Ian Bell and Graham Onions keeping the series from South Africa. Now let's not make ourselves rely on poor Graham's batting ability. I hope he takes all twenty wickets in the next match. Strauss and Cook will each get a century in the first and second innings respectively. Now that's wishful thinking.