The world from my window

I woke up this morning, drooling on my pillow like Patsy from  Ab Fab . My hair was sticking up on one side and a trail of clothes led to the bed. I can't find my coat and I hope it's still in the pub. Some weeks ago, Ding Dong Daddy asked me to help him out with the disco in the pub on New Year's Eve. It wasn't exactly like this, but not dissimilar. All afternoon, Ding Dong Daddy and I worked in separate houses, putting our playlists together. Messages pinged back and forth, a conversation on Twitter included Caitlin Moran , the writer Marian Keyes favourited one of my tweets and the violinist with the Smashing Pumpkins  and I had a bit of joshing on Facebook. Things could only get better... Well, Ding Dong Daddy and I played back-to-back. I sneaked in Siouxsie and the Banshees, followed Tom Jones with Tom Jones, peaked too early with The Monkees, got back in the game with Lady and Sing It Back and then emptied the dance floor with James Brown's T...

It's New Year's Eve, and this year I'm spending it in Lush Places. Not for me a pomegranate smashed near the door to spread the seeds of good luck on New Year's Day. I don't think they stock them in our village shop. In any case, last year, back in Corfu, it took us ages to get the stain out. Tonight, we'll be hanging out in Lush Places, where the Dorset villagers will be dressed in 70s and 80s for a vinyls night in the local pub and we'll be noshing on a bring-something-to-the-table get-together for thirteen, or, as I'd rather call it, twelve and one for luck. Superstitious? Me? Of course I am. And then we'll all get together for a few drinks in the pub before spilling out into the Square for Old Lang Syne, random kissing and a game of Let's Stop The Traffic . Before that, I need to decide what hat to wear tonight after rashly sending out an email saying our theme should be Get Your Head In Gear For The New Year (as mine most certa...

The seagulls are buffeted in batches as they attempt to cross the West Bay sky. People in new hats and scarves walk around the harbour. An elderly couple wear matching reindeer jumpers. A half-breed terrier barks bravely at two huskies, wolves in eskimo clothing.  A child tears around on a toy tractor with only a small wall between him and a muddy end. The tide is out and so are all the after-Christmas revellers, soaking up the salt air like good quality kitchen roll mops up those yuletide spills. The Grigg household is quiet now, after a Christmas Day for waifs and strays at the Champagne-Charlies and Boxing Day with thirty eight relatives ensconced in various corners of the house, children squealing and being obliging or otherwise, people going outside for crafty fags and teenagers cursing because they couldn't send a text. In The Enchanted Village, no-one can hear your mobile phone scream. There is no signal. Tonight we will process around the village for a safari ...

In the village square, the party poppers and streamers lie on the tarmac, like the tresses of an abandoned lover. Up in the bedroom, Mr Grigg is snoring. Behind the closed curtains of The Enchanted Village streets, people are sleeping with smiles on their faces. Last night, the clock struck twelve (it could have been thirteen) as the cast of this blog snaked down from the hall past the play equipment to the square. Earlier, Mr Grigg had spent rather too long in a clinch with a couple of balloons and a pretty maid as Manual shouted instructions from the stage, dressed in a sequinned suit and a ginger wig. He managed to break away in time for the big New Year's Eve countdown, and my high heels spiked the grass in the village green as I tried to make it to the square before the clock stopped chiming. Down in the square, revellers spilled out from the pub. There were two lines. Us and them. The Greeks and the Trojans, ready to fight. Super Mario and Princess Peach, as Hector and ...