Four

'Christ- it's like the undertaker's Christmas party!'
I'm inclined to disagree- I'm fairly sure any silence at an undertaker's Christmas party would have these undertones of sex, lies and deceit.
J sits at the centre of the table, ironic party hat perched on her blonde hair, gorging on our Indian feast of rices, naans, pokoras, chicken and curries across the spice spectrum, and doing her darndest to preserve the happy birthday atmosphere. Her shag-of-choice is banished to a distant corner of the celebrations, looking on sulkily, and doing his darndest to keep himself to himself. The reason for his sulkiness, his ex I, sits near us, a vision of pixie-cut hair and midnight blue silk, doing her darndest to pretend that she doesn't want him back. In the centre of the celebrations, several girls with similar dark mid-length hair, similar big belts and skinny jeans, and similar floaty tops simmer at the boy quietly- out of 'loyalty' to I, they haven't spoken to the boy in question since they broke up in the autumn. K flirts shamelessly with the boy in question- well, other than my squeeze, he is the only boy in the room- not that dating me stopped H flirting with him earlier in the evening.
The squeeze and myself do our best to circulate, see every face, keep out of the mess that well inevitably unravel if alcohol gets involved. Fortunately, only one bottle of champagne is involved in the night's revelries, so chances of an alcohol-fueled bloodbath seem all but impossible.

The end of the night brings with it a sigh of relief.
Throughout the chatter and clatter and the indian cusine, everyone seems to have aged. They each say their goodbyes, wearily embracing the rest of the group and exhaustedly placing expensive coats on heavy shoulders. For me, however, reaching 11pm without any argee-bhaji (ignore the pun) should be considered a minor miracle. There is a certain spring in my step I gather up my coat, kiss my goodbyes and head for the door. The streets are cold, and my flimsy Topshop dress does little to keep me warm. Luckily, as always my squeeze is there, arms around me, dashing in and out of lamplight right next to me. We reach my house near midnight- our breath is crystalline in the air, merging together.
'That could've gone better.'
'It could've gone much worse,' he assures me, wrapping us both in his hoodie.
'Thank you for coming tonight. Sorry for dragging you into that mess.'
'Glad to do it, beautiful.' He smiles.
'I love you, you know?'
'I know. I love you too.'
A brief embrace, and he's retreating into the murky darkness- probably in search of the nearest chip shop, knowing him.
Running into the warmth, I realise that my relief is tainted with disappointment- four and a half months later, and things still aren't any more united on the friendship front.

Distractions

I can't believe the holidays are nearly over- again! Holidays can never be long enough, in my opinion. As long as you've got some good friends, some time to kill, and maybe some cheesy pizza and cheesier films, there's always something to do.
Admittedly, the party scene has been somewhat bleak- apart from a few hometown piss-ups, it appears everyone's actually been working so they an pass their A-levels/ afford to go on holiday this year. I, on the other hand, have foregone this sensible approach, to do the following:

1. Spending lazy days under the covers with my squeeze, watching crappy films and picking out the glow from the fairy lights in his eyes.
2. Trying Walker's slightly bizarre new crisp flavours in bed with H.
3. Reading comics about emo-scenester-vampires.
4. Eating shitloads of my favorite greasy, cheesy, order-in pizza (they're actually so perfect, they're above my mother on speed dial).
5. Buying my own weight in books from the local charity shops, including Geek Love, Memoirs of a Geisha, Love Lives and With One Lousy Free Packet of Seed, which were all my 'to buy' list anyway.
6. Dancing around J's bedroom to the new Lily Allen album. Not world's biggest fan, but a lot of fun to dance to.
7. Blowing lots and lots of money on cheap tacky bracelets (to mix in with my expensive ones, so my arm-wear looks a little more kooky and original) and luxurious cardigans in the sales (to throw over flirty spring blouses, or keep safe for when winter rolls around again).
8. Keeping H company via telephone, as she is under house arrest for getting wankered in front of her Granddad.
9. Spending any remaining minutes after comforting H on the squeeze when he went to visit his family.
10. Watching Nick and Nora's Infinite Playlist. I defy you not to fall in love with one of the adorable gay guys from 'The Jerk-Offs'.
11. Making some sweet mixtapes :)
12. Having a duvet day with my girlfriends, and watching Minute Men. I know it's Disney, but you should watch it for its cheesiness, predictability, and the fact that you can tell the little one is going to be hot when he's older. And I also quite like the big scary guy, but I always love big scary guys :)
13. Listening to Masterpiece Theatre. Not as good as Fix Me, but still suitably mind-blowing.
14. Trying to teach myself to cook- not as disastrous as it might sound.
15. Actually making some progress with my 'self-destructive-party-people' novel, which I'm hoping will be more Great Gatsby than Gossip Girl.
16. Praying the holidays won't end. It didn't work. Thanks again, guy in the sky.

Snow

Q: What do the party people do on a snow day?
A: Toboggan, of course!

It appears that the entire country has come to a standstill over a few inches of snow, and I for one am not complaining. I do understand that many people were unable to reach work/home/emergency food supplies, but for students, snow means snow day, and snow day means serious fun.
Of course, I only found out about the snow day after trekking half way to college, at which point I checked my phone, only to find 7 messages on my phone, all along the lines of:
‘F, do NOT go to school! It is closed! And for God’s sake, will you please check your phone more often?!?!’
Smooth.

The plan from there was very simple- run home, quickly change into warm (but causally suggestive) clothes, meet my current squeeze in town, and head for the park. It is unspoken law in our town that all students gravitate to the park on a snow day- nobody knows why, but it has been that way for as long as anyone can remember. Really, I should have thought of this before I agreed to meet my best friends, H and J, in the park- of course, amidst the seas of students snuggling/tobogganing/snuggling for warmth, there was absolutely no sign of them. H didn’t help; when I tried to call her, she simply exclaimed ‘But I’m HERE!’ and hung up.
Being stranded in the park is not the best of situations; there were literally hundreds of kids there, all slightly hyperactive, and looking for someone to hurl ice balls at. Needless to say, a bunch of particularly evil looking kids (who I saw previously head butt a snowman) took a bit of a disliking to us. Despite selfishly using my squeeze as a human shield, I still got hit in the side of the head, which is currently quite puffy, and makes my face look kind of uneven. Not only that, but I’m not a huge fan of snow- don’t get me wrong, it looks pretty, and seems to make everyone regress to childhood. But it always makes my various coughs and colds ten times worse, and is not eyeliner-friendly, which puts it in my bad books.
Luckily, we did eventually manage to find them before we froze to death. It took us less than an hour to realise that as fun as sledging in the park was, we couldn’t feel any of our extremities, so we all headed back to someone’s house. A little bit wussy, admittedly, but it meant I got to spend most of the snow day under a blanket in someone’s living room with my current squeeze. After all, having a boy keep me warm is exponentially more fun that getting ice pelted at my head…

Hampstead

David Mitchell (a literay genius, as far as I'm concerned), said this of Hampstead:

'The elevator doors open and you're suddenly out into a leafy street where even McDonald's had to tone down their red nad yellow for black and gold, to help it blend in with the bookshops. Old money lives in Hampstead. The last of the empire money. They take their grandchildren on birthday trips to the British Museum, and poison one anothers' spouses in elegant ways.'

Well, on our trip up last weekend, I saw no evidence of poisoning, but there was old money in abundance. Apparently, one should always check the charity shops when in London for a rare find; in Hampstead, you are confrotned with tweed suits, sensible heels, and shelves upon shelves of paperbacks. I did find a tialored tweed jacket (to be worn ironically, of course, with a minidress and coloured tights), but my friends convinced me it wasn't worth it; as J put it 'you just never know with charity shop tweed jackets- someone might've died in it!'

Apart from the charity shops, you had all of your usual high street fodder- big belts and big jewellery and big bags and tiny clothes. And, of course, chic overpriced eateries, which entice you with window display desserts, and then demand extortionate amounts of money for sub-standard icing.

And, of course, a little diamond shopping- well, a girl needs to treat herself every now and then! Sadly, I blew every penny I have in the madness that is the January sales, so I was merely browsing. It was slightly heartbreaking, seeing all of those shiny pretty thigns sparkling the mid-afternoon behind the plates of glass. I'm a bit of a fan of shiny things- Hell, I'm a bit of a fan for anything that involves blowing alot of money at once...