A Christmas letter

Dear all,

And so, as the plump turkey of life comes out of the inadequately pre-heated oven of destiny, shortly before the diners of fate feel the queasy sensation caused by the e.coli bug of eternity, I notice it's almost Christmas.

Which means this here site has been going for six-and-a-bit months. It's really no time, but it would have seemed ludicrous back in June. I've only just noticed that the number of posts is up to three figures. By my calculations, this was my hundredth missive, which is something to be either very proud or ashamed of.

For what it's worth, to be dreadfully vain for a mo, my favourite post here so far might just be this, as little sense as it makes now.

Because it's the season for sentimentality, I want to put on record my appreciation of you. To anyone who has read, left a comment, emailed, offered encouragement or just generally dug it: thank you. I would probably still be doing this if no-one was reading but, though you are few in number, you make it a hell of a lot more fun.

To my favourite writers - bloggers or Normals, dead or alive - for inspiration, influence and the infuriating inadequacy I feel in comparison: thank you. You bastards.

Posting over Christmas will probably depend on the extent of the damage to my internal organs inflicted by the industrial quantity of chocolate I'll be consuming. That and having ideas, like. Here's hoping I can continue doing...em...whatever it is I do here for long enough to write another Christmas letter, and that I won't get bored and find another hobby, like bicycle polo or a website demanding the return of Everwood.

Below, I've left a wee present. I must confess I didn't make it myself, and I have no idea if you'll like it, but you can always return it to the shop and exchange it for something else if you want.

Happy Christmas/Hanukkah/Festivus, and however you're spending the next while, have a good one.

Yours,

F.