Duck soup

A typical Christmas day has slipped away as swiftly as it came, with presents, food and hours of turgid television. Mum and Dad got me a pair of Doc Marten shoes, a jumper and a ball-point pen, Rob and Carol an illustrated history of The Doors, Nanna P. £5 and Brut talc and Splash-on-Lotion, and Andrew bought me a Bunny Wailer record. Dad, as usual, got a heap of things, mainly books.

Nanna B. was brought round by Aunty Beverly at dinnertime and she graced us with her presence all afternoon. She came out with her miserable “I haven’t got you much . . . I’m only a poor old widow woman” routine–she got me a key fob plus £1 and Andrew a rubbishy plastic wallet–and in almost the next breath was telling us of the new stereo she’s just bought herself.

My cousin Susan and four-month old daughter called round in the evening, the baby very fat-faced with huge cheeks and a bald pate.

Now all the visitors are gone, and so too is Christmas for another year. I've come to bed, stuffed with food and eyes glazed from watching too much TV. I watched a very entertaining Marx Bros. film (Duck Soup).

Nineteen eighty-four has got to be a year of real progress for me.

 "There are states of consciousness that are not 'everyday consciousness' and which are not 'transcendental' either. These produce a definite sense of values and purpose. If we investigate these properly, man may be able to replace his old dogmatic religious values with a scientifically objective set of external values" (Wilson, p.160).