The Ghost of Christmas Past

I am not one for tradition. I am not one to run with the herd, to buzz with the swarm. I am not one for religion, thus I am personally unlikely to find the anniversary of the birth of a prophet a worthy cause for celebration*. I am not one for conventionalism, and the idea of a socially-dictated date for family bonding makes my blood boil. I am not one for presents, and find present-giving on fixed dates to be a pure celebration of consumerist debauchery -- Saint Marks&Spencer.

All this goes to explain why last xmas, while pretty much everybody ran away to their homes and families, or with their loved ones, or with their friends, I stood like a tree, firmly rooted in London.

I had great plans at first. I though I would study. Then I learned all the libraries would be closed for 12 days. Ok, I thought, the gym then, work hard on those muscles. Then I learned that the gym would also be closed. Ok then, I thought, let's do some tourism. This I finally did, and enjoyed the atmosphere of the city dressed in light with her lips painted neon, but let me tell you it was damn fucking cold.

So I spent xmas & New Year's Eve in London. It was nothing much, but it was all right. I had my time, time to walk and think and lose myself down the streets among the crowds, which I cherished. I also enjoyed some really good moments, and have some really cool people to thank for that.

And so now, after the whole xmas jazz, when others are returning to London, I go away, inverting the J&B commercial. I've come to Madrid for a week: the Ghost of Christmas Past is visiting.

* Nor am I particularly inclined to celebrate Saturnalia, Sol Invictus or the winter solstice.