I'm at Matt's house at the end of an incredibly long day. We're sitting at his piano playing Barry Manilow songs whilst outside the snow falls and glistens in the orange light of a street lamp. It feels like Christmas.
I did a morning's work in a cafe just off Oxford Street before going to a meeting at Broadcasting House. We were discussing an incredibly exciting project, which obviously I can't relay for fear of jinxing it!
I rushed to Portobello Road for the Tomboy Films Christmas dinner, which felt like a grown up affair this year. The last few years we've ended up staggering out of pubs in the middle of the night, but this doesn't seem to have been a year of decadent partying. Maybe it's the recession. Maybe all my friends are nesting. Maybe I'm finally a grown up!
350 years ago, and Pepys was still watching over his workmen, desperately hoping they'd be out of the house before Christmas. Towards the end of the day he heard that Princess Henrietta, the eldest daughter of Charles I had small pox. It wasn't looking good for her.
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