Ugh, I feel like a Scrooge. Except my Scrooge won’t exist in some winterland nightmare; my Scrooge is relaxing either a) poolside anywhere, b) at a backyard barbeque wearing the most stylish pair of tartan shorts known to humankind, or c) anywhere but in Surrey circa January/February (aka, peak suicide time). I hate the snow. It’s beautiful, I know, but so is Tyra Banks and would you want to deal with her for four months at a time? Yeah, me neither.

I’m sitting at work, waiting for a ride, and work has that eerie after-hours buzz, like how you’d imagine the deserted streets of New York would be post-apocalypse. I look like a loser sitting here. Good thing no one is here to see me. I’m reminded of some adage about a tree doing something in the woods. Doing what? Probably updating its blog.