Merry merry

I’m in a lovely, window-full apartment in the middle of Nowhere Canada, sick as a dog. In the next room, Bruce is trying to bring diplomacy to a Christmas tree situation steadily building in hysterics between my father (who wants to take the thing, fully decorated, out of its stand so that he can saw a bit off the base) and my mother (who clearly doesn’t).

Yesterday I ate a small bowl of cereal, a grilled cheese sandwich and a half a grape Popsicle. Today it was apple juice, a small cinnamon bun and a half an orange Popsicle.

Tomorrow we have family coming round for Christmas Eve dinner and festivities, including my niece’s new boyfriend and his parents/grandmother. Given that water is the only food that doesn’t make me feel like I’m dying, though, I can’t see it being a very successful night for me.

I still haven’t bought Bruce a gift because I haven’t been able to get out of bed. We think he may be getting sick too.

This following a long, annoying flight and horrible jetlag – well, you couldn’t make it up, really. Give me a break.

I'm reading American Psycho for the first time.