The year, she is wheezy

Yes, it's the end of another year. Another 365 lumbering steps towards the box that awaits us all... Well, unless you're planning on being buried in some sort of larger-than-life-sized papier mache model of a badger, or getting turned into pies, or something like that.

I wonder if a cannibal wake would catch on over here? I mean, the Wari' have been doing it for generations. Mind you, you'd have to do a bit of presentation on the body parts if it's going to be a success in the UK. At the very least you'd have to wrap the various bits in pastry so they look like sausage rolls. Mind you, then you'd never really know what bit you were eating ... much like a real sausage roll then.

Anyway, yes. This has taken a rather macabre turn, hasn't it? I have been eating a lot of cheese at bedtime lately, so maybe that explains it..

Another thing I've been doing a lot of over the festive period is sleeping. Lots and lots of sleeping. Which I suppose isn't that surprising, given how busy 2010 has been. Too many all-nighters pulled trying to meet deadlines, lots of travelling, and the fact that I spend most of my time indoors with Grendel. let's face it, she's a cat -- sleeping is what cats are second best at, closely tied with covering everything in the house in a thick patina of discarded fluff. Honestly, the floor in my study looks like a deep-pile grey mohair jumper. Every time I hoover it's like playing Indiana Jones and the Lost Carpet of Blueness (which would probably still be a much better film than all that Crystal Skull nonsense).

So, the only two options I can come up with are that, A: I've got some sort of sleeping sickness - which I kinda doubt as the only place I've been recently is Shetland, and in addition to its complete lack of anything even remotely resembling a jungle, it's also renowned for not having any tsetse flies. Or, B: being around Grendel so much is turning me into a cat. Which I suppose wouldn't be all that bad -- Grendel has a great life, she's pampered, fed, watered, looked after, has no real responsibilities, and never has to hoover the study in a vain attempt to locate the actual carpet.

Of course the downside would be having to wash oneself continuously using only your own tongue. I've got a bit of a bad back, so that's out. Maybe I'd be allowed to use someone else's tongue on medical grounds? (And don't think Keira Knightley and Ann Widdecombe haven't been fighting over the privilege) But then I'd have to spend the day covered in someone else's slavers, and that's doesn't appeal quite as much as you'd think.

I've completely forgotten where I was going with this.

Anyway, in the absence of yet another 'top ten of 2010' listy post, enjoy your Hogmanay* and if you're in Aberdeen on the 12th of January, maybe I'll see you at the Lemon Tree, where we'll be launching SHATTER THE BONES.

Right, now I'm off for a snooze...

* Which my spelling checker wants to change to 'Mahogany' for some God-forsaken reason. Not quite the same thing, I'm thinking, but I have been known to be wrong in the past. Perhaps people do burst into annual revelry around their sideboards, stripping off till all their wearing are party hats and a cheesy grin? Who am I to judge?

Cabin Fever!

Of course, 'Cabin Fever' shouldn't be confused with 'Jungle Fever', especially when the cabin in question is in Shetland. Not known for it's jungles, is Shetland. In fact, it's positively renowned for being a jungle-free zone. When I think of Shetland one of the first things that comes to mind is the complete absence of anything even vaguely resembling a jungle.

The other big difference between Cabin and Jungle fever is the complete lack of monkeys, elephants, lions, and Tarzan. Though he may have been suffering from Cabin Fever in the Jungle, given his habit of running around in his pants, yodelling all over the place. Which is just not sanitary.

When I was a kid, I could never figure out why Tarzan yodelled the whole time. I mean, he wasn't even Swiss, was he? No, he was Lord Greystoke, a member of the British aristocracy, which is important from a societal perspective -- a commoner running about the jungle in their pants, yodelling at things, would be a sign of mental illness and depravity. A member of the upper classes doing it is eccentric and delightfully whimsical.

It still doesn't explain the yodelling though. I mean, OK, so Tarzan was raised by apes, devoid of human contact in his formative years, so we can expect his communication skills to need a bit of work, but yodelling? Who taught him to do that? As far as I can remember, there's never been a David Attenborough documentary about the Great Yodelling Apes of the African Congo. And even if there were, where did they learn it from? I suppose there must have been Swedish missionaries in the region a couple of decades before, who took pity on the godless apes and decided to teach them how to communicate over large distances in mountainous territory. A vital skill, should the aforementioned apes ever find themselves stranded in the Alps, because the plane they've chartered to take them to Madrid has gone seriously off course after the pilot passed out from trying to snort dry-roasted peanuts.

And yes, that's not very likely, but clearly Swedish missionaries don't like to leave anything to chance. That's why they've got those groovy knives the size of mobile phones from the 1980s.

But I digress...

So, Cabin Fever. CABIN FEVER. I think I may be coming down with a bout of it, having spent nearly four weeks in a one room studio overhanging the harbour in a small town on the west coast of Shetland -- the last week and a bit under a blanket of snow even thicker than people who think you can communicate with monkeys by yodelling at them. Seriously, next time you're at the zoo, or your plane crashes halfway up the Amazon, have a bash at yodelling at the wildlife: see how far it gets you.