If blogs were ketchup, and I had to transport thirty four peas from plate to mouth, I would certainly not have an adequate amount of collatory material to successfully stick them to the fork vehicle. Neglection is not even the word (actually it isn't even A word, but we're so above that pedantry), absence is not the word either, neither is laziness, neither is avoidance, it is just a simple non-existance, and many many peas may have fallen somewhere as a result.
SO here I am, getting on with it, alone in my house for the first time ever (everyone has osmosed out, along a concentration gradient of busy to nocrowd), kind of half packing to go home for Christmas, deliberating whether to trust my laboriously deducted 4sock=2week+3(wash) formula. The world is supposed to end tomorrow anyway, so all my underwear strategies are probably a waste of time. 'Probably'? Interesting accidental word choice there, Gregson. Maybe I secretly think it is going to happen. To be fair, the entirety of France seems convinced: only today I got told by two children, as they clasped their faces and lamented at the state of humanity, that the playground will crack in half to reveal the centre of the Earth,  and that Francois Hollande will become an angel. Didn't quite know how to react to the second part, I kind of just petted them on the head and smiled with my mouth and muttered something in mutant Panicfrench about opening Christmas presents early and avoiding any suspect vortexes. It probably wouldn't be that terrible anyway if Hollande did join the celestial host - in fact, it would be quite enjoyable to watch (provided that there were no other apocalyptic interferences such as plagues/smogs etc ruining the view). In any case, I can now tell you for certain sure that the world won't end on tomorrow, as my supreme self-distraction talents have allowed for two days's worth of time to pass, and it is now the 22nd, and I have not yet been eaten by worms with elbows or other such appropriately endofworldy type beast.
In other news, cos talking about endings that weren't going to and never did happen gets a bit boring after a while, we bought a house wheelchair and I can now do 97 turns balanced at a 45 degree angle to the ground. It might also be interesting to note that it is now the 23rd which means CHRISTMAS is nearly here which means much food and festivity and cold nights which means potentially walking outside in towns which means warm quick food is needed which means crepes.

Kwismiskweppz 

100g plain flour
2 eggs
180ml milk (180mlk)
50ml water
50g butter
1tbsp caster sugar

3 apples
cinnamon
nutmeg
rayyysssinnnzzzz
sugar
water

1) Cut and chop apples
2) Bung them in pan with the other ingredients
3) Leave them to cook until they are soft puttableinablecrepeable
1) Whisk the flour with the eggs
2) Add and whisk in the milk and the water, bit by bit, obliterating any lumps with your merciless trident
3) Melt butter in pan
4) Pour dollop of mixture into pan, swirl around a bit, flip it, put one hand on your hip at some stage to make it look like you are at utmost ease with your oven and batters, casually toss your head of hair back in appreciation of a joke one of your woolly jumper wearing friends has made, stroke the dog lovingly and glance through the frosty window to the fresh snow gathering on the tree branches. Pile crepes up on platter and adorn with apple mush and MANGEZ. It is certainly no coincidence that the French for 'eat' is spelt exactly like festive vocabulary frequenter and the 2000 year old popular crib MANGER, by the way. I heard from a very reliable source* that one derives from the other - although it is not known which - as the cattle ate from this trough as we do from the table during this twelfth month.

Whilst I can completely see how few people could like anything more than a good fringe waft along with George Michael and his histories of Christmas heartbreak, I am not going to suggest you eat these frepes (festive crepes, for those of you whose brains are too tiny and feeble to guess) alongside such jingles, as I recently heard a man got actual sprout poisoning and am now paranoid about the possibility of overdosing on Noël, so have gone for something diff instead. Hitparade by Klangkarussel (youtube here:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nHQNQFd21wQ   for 1hr 37mins 46 secs of tunes and boobs; many nudey girls contemplating bits of music paraphernalia in a naturally highly realistic and not at all myopic portrayal of females going about their daily life) is a nice solid block of perfectly rhythmized crepe stirring backdrop. Watch out for 34 mins and 30 seconds in, however, as every single person in the vicinity will start bopping with the upper half of their bodies only, which can be disturbing if unexpected, and also can induce batter spillage.

So, once you have whisked frepes with your arms and bopped with your abdominals, your mind will no doubt be knocking on the window of your requirements, demanding for some attention. It is easily solved, however, so don't send him away - tell him to come round to the door and let him in and hand him a copy of Saul Bellow's Henderson the Rain King, give him a cushion or whatever it is that minds prefer to sit on these days, and let him at it. I think I probably say this a lot (mummy Gregs says 'this is the best tree we have ever had!' each year even if it is a twig in comparison to last years evergreen beauty and I think I may have inherited this trait) but I think this is the best book I have ever read. I mean this without any twigsympathy because I ACTUALLY REALLY REALLY LIKED THIS BOOK PROBABLY MORE THAN I HAVE EVER LIKED A BOOK BEFORE EVERYBODY LISTEN I AM TELLING THE TRUTH IN FACT I LIKED IT SO MUCH I AM GOING TO STOP USING THE PAST TENSE AND SAY I LIKE IT STILL YES THE LIKE LASTS LONGER THAN THE READING I LIKE THIS BOOK. Wow, how about that for cathartic book love.
Quite embarrassed about that outpouring actually, so am going to wish you all a M.C and H.N.Y and swiftly leave the room under the excuse that I'm nipping to the loo so I don't have to be there when you talk about how intense and borderline awks it was.

*my bwain