10! 9! 8! 7! 6! 5! 4! 3! 2! 1!

You know that bit in mass where the priest says "Let us offer one another a sign of peace"? I hate that bit. I spend every massy minute up to it consumed by dread. The awkward handshakes. The awkwardier hugs. I always seem to offer my sign of peace to the wrong people at the wrong time; I'm left with my hand outstretched, waiting for my turn. Feeling diminished, and a little ashamed, I turn puce.

I don't know why. I'm affectionate. I like handshakes. I love hugs.

Last night I stood wobbly-lipped in the Jaffa Cake's kitchen, trying to explain to him why I hate New Year's Eve. It's because it's just like that handshakey bit at mass, only with kisses and a countdown. It makes me want to hide behind the couch. It's a difficult point to make without sounding like a mentler, especially when you're the sort who gets uppity about Wicklonians not even saying hello to you when they pass you on the beach.

So I sat there with my cheeks reddening in dire anticipation. Acutely aware of their rougeness, of the rash creeping across my collarbone. Hideous in my irrational emotional discomfort. My icy hands betrayed me; I pleaded tiredness to excuse my heat-radiating face. When his sister checked the time to make sure that we wouldn't miss the countdown, I bit back my blind panic. When I couldn't (wouldn't? Or just plain didn't?) get up from the couch as the clock struck midnight, she hugged me warmly and wished me a Happy New Year.

I hugged her in return, and I meant it. Fading to pale, I retired to bed, grateful for the generosity and patience she (and he) affords me.

Butterpigs

"I'm gaunnae kick yer fuckin' heid in, ya bam!" he roared, lurching down the carriage, spraying spit and spilling cider. He brayed laughing and punched his mate in the head. I was delighted.

Glasgow.

Saturday night saw us in the Buff, dancing to Pulp's Disco 2000. "I grew up with woodchip on the walls" I laughed. He pretended to be appalled. He loves his bit of rough with her swinging hips, swigging from a tin of Red Stripe, happy as a lark. The pub is called the Butterfly and the Pig and I like its dinky little ditty -

I’ll never forget falling in love with a butterfly,
a pig was I a pig not she,
you see to fly like her or be like me a butterpig you must be,
to care, to share, to love everywhere, to have curly hair,
is the meaning of the butterfly and the pig,
the odd pair.

Though no odd pair we.

On the windy way home we blessed an amiable drunk with a cigarette in exchange for directions to our warm bed. He wished us a merry Christmas and congratulated himself on being the first to do so. Aye, second turn on the left... into an industrial wasteland from which you may never escape. An hour later and a pish down a laneway - we were lost. The perishing cold gnawed at my cheer and my chips. I hate Glasgow.

But I didn't, not really. On Sunday morning I ate porridge with maple syrup in the Willow Tea Rooms and tried on every red woollen coat in Scotland. We trailed around GoMA, drank Glühwein at the fair, swung rosie cheeked with cold on the carousel swings. I eyed the Helter Skelter longingly but didn't push my luck - it's cute til the carnies have to pry your ample arse off the slide.

To the dreary Dows by Queen Street Station then to watch the football. I sat with a book as a beard, soaking up the locals. The miserable middle-aged women with their shopping, Bacardi Breezers brightening their smiles, the lone and lonely men. A Glaswegian L'Absinthe.

Before boarding the train from Central Station the Jaffa Cake dipped in to the chippie with a Mars Duo. We sat amongst the pigeons then, grinning, greasy with batter and banter. A fitting end to the weekend. Butterpigs both.

Hy A Scullyas Lyf Adhagrow

I didn't mean to slam the door behind me, but it was stiff and I was fumbling. I walked the first five minutes with tears tracking mascara down my cheeks, listening for my name, the sound of regret and running feet. Nothing. I paused and lit a cigarette with a shiver and a snivel, then walked on. I thought of walking home, leaving the cold to bite me and becoming a martyr for my cause. But my leaving was for the sake of sensible, responsible, other unpleasant ibles. So I got as far as the seafront and I hailed a taxi.

Love Lane, please. I strapped myself in. Love Lane, he repeated softly. Are you okay? I nodded, catching a glimpse of myself in his mirror. He turned the heating up, turned the country sad songs down, swung the car around and carried me home. And for his silence I was warmly, pathetically grateful.

Tuesday

Sometimes I wish I was the kind of girl who has €140 blonde highlights. Who wears heels and makeup to her job in human resources. Who smells faintly of Coco Mademoiselle and fake tan and who never seems to get caught in the rain. Who eats salads for lunch and buys knickers in Topshop. The kind of girl with a fiancé who works for Deloitte who calls her "babe" and sends ostentatious flowers to her office for Valentine's day. Who has girlfriends and drinks chardonnay, who does not know what a blog is and does not care. The kind of girl who wears rings on her fingers and french polish on her nails, who thinks anal sex is disgusting and blow jobs are for special occasions. Who is self assured and blessed with a sense of entitlement, who has a mediocre and moderately happy future ahead of her, full of SUVs, suburbs and blonde children who take classes after school and call their mother by her name.

Because sometimes I think that that would be easier than this.

Something To Tide Me Over