The day after the memorial celebration frankie_ecap and I spent wandering around Oxford. She had been staying with white_hart and I met them in Broad Street, being dragged down the road until I saw one of Anthony Gormley’s sculptures balanced precariously on the corner of the roof of Blackwell’s art shop. Although not one of his series Event Horizon, it could have been: a human figure perched on the roof. It is very disturbing – a figure, silhouetted, stock still, almost as if waiting to fall. It is unnerving.

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It is the party season. I have been to three Christmas celebrations, two work-based and one supplier. I had expected that they would yield exciting tales to regale you with. But I am not sure that I come out of those too well, so I shall keep my ruminations on Christmas parties to myself.

After the last party on Thursday, I came home slightly the worse for wear – only slightly – and sat down, playing with the cats. The way my cats show affection when I play with them is by drawing as much blood as they can; they were very affectionate on Thursday night.

(I was playing with the cats this afternoon, as well: “So you’re not just stupid when you’re drunk”, said my wife.)

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