(no subject)

The Paradise ended. I am bereft. What will I do without my fabulously preposterous Victorian shop?! Never have I fallen in love with a more unlikely television series - and, as if to add insult to injury, it ended without explosions, gunfire, or even swords. I still hope for a duel between Moray and Weston, although they have rather set the latter up to suggest that he'd turn tail and flee were Moray ever to set propriety aside and challenge him. Dash it all. Still, at least now it's over I can go back to things that explode. Whilst hoping very much that it'll return next year, and seduce me, against my better judgement, all over again.

In other news, I was writing Christmas cards earlier, and I've now got glitter all over my jeans. They're black, so I currently look like a refugee from a New Romantic band. Or at least my legs do. The rest of me is still more Bruce Springsteen dragged through a hedge backwards.

My desk is covered in glitter as well. I'd swear there wasn't this much on the cards to begin with. I suppose I'd better at least attempt to clear it up, or next thing I know I'll have New Romantic cats to go with the jeans. As ever, December is full of little obstacles. But also mince pies, which is no help at all, I know, but still.