Oh, I've so much to cover. It has been a whirlwind of gin and tinsel, my lovely peasants, and I'm only now beginning to sober up.
Naturally, I spent the hols at home, with Mum and Dad. It's so quaint to cuddle up next to the homey old Christmas tree.
Christmas at our house is low-key, we just exchange little things and enjoy each others' company. This was my haul this year:
Then we all played drinking games and tried not to notice when Fi hit on my brother, my mum's friend's son, and my father, respectively, as she became more and more inebriated. I may or may not have overheard her propositioning the chef who made the bourgeois mashed potato and parsnip dish.
New Years was lovely. I'm SO not a party girl on New Years, so I decided to keep it low-key. You know, darlings, like staying in and watching Love, Actually on the telly. Or, rather, squeezing myself into one giant smacker of a bandage dress, hiking up the old girls, and partying all night long at a nightclub. Low-key.
The next day, inbetween calling the local constabulary to rid my apartment of Fiona's gentleman caller from the night before and emptying said gentleman's pockets of my watch, wallet, and two serving spoons from Granny's silver chest, I spent some time thinking about the past year. Do you do this? Reflect on the year past as a way of staving off that insatiable nausea/hunger that happens after you've drunk four bottles of champagne the night before?
And really, 2012 was a delightful year. It began so terribly, with the dissolution of an unspeakable relationship. Never, ever date a reality television star, peasants. Truly, I should have listened when Niles informed me that Spencer Matthews looked like a Hobbit, even if Niles was simply jealous.
I remember Mum pulling me aside one night last March, when I was feeling especially bereft. She brought me into the keeping room and sat me down on the expansive leather divan. And in front of the fire, she affectionately tucked my hair behind my ear and gently said, "Jonquil, my love, stop being such a goddamned cock-up, you're depressing my houseguests."
It was truly then that I knew things had to change. I mean, aside from my living arrangements; Mum kicked me straight out that night until I learned to be more cheery.
So I packed my bags and traveled the world. Spencer called in mid-May, and I told him to sod off and called him a foul-chested, stumpy wanker. I found solace and ultimate heartbreak in the arms of Cousin Niles, in whom I had confided the previous Christmas and who proved to be a most ardent comforter.
In short, 2012 began in shambles, and ended, as things always do for me, in glittering, brilliant perfection. I'm like a miniseries, darlings; the road may be long, the cast may be B-rated -- but in the end, I'm purely untouchable. And nothing stops me from having lovely hair.
Happy 2013, my little rustics. I adore each and every one of you, even if you are rather dirty and unkempt.
P.S. And darling, especially you -- do not ever doubt your
muchness, regardless of what your mother says.