On this side of the hemisphere the festive season is turning a bit Dickens-ish - the nights are long, the already painfully short days are mostly grey and uninspiring. It is snowing and my balcony plants are mostly covered in the white shit stuff. The cold just hits one in the face even before one has opened the door to the outside.

You know, the usual.

So here I am, all festive, wearing a red t-shirt and my warmest training trousers, with a notebook on my lap and literature queries in my search engine. I am also hungry, but trying to ignore it whilst looking up European literary magazines to submit my poems for consideration to.

Facepalm. Cliché.

You will be pleased to know that I solved this situation by having something to eat. And instead of submitting a poem to be read by editors somewhere, I wrote two new poems.

Much better, thank you.

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