We spent a pleasant Christmas at my parents’ place over in the Kingdom; my first Christmas spent in a house I actually own will just have to wait its turn. Speaking of which, it turns out buying a flat is a licence for relatives to abdicate responsibility for aforethought in the present buying process. “They just got a place, didn’t they? They probably need, I don’t know, a sieve. Let’s get them a sieve.”

I mostly jest. But the truth is somewhat related: the big event for me at Christmas was that I got a coffee and tea set while my Dad revelled in his new iPod Touch. There is a distinct role reversal happening here. (Happily, it is the baddest-ass tableware I’ve ever seen. And I did actually need a teapot, so I should quit my whining.)

Christmas morning came and went, and after gifts had been exchanged and breakfast rolls eaten (bought round the corner at Stuart’s the baker, the outgoing Scotch Pie World Champion), Ash and I waddled out for a constitutional. I took the opportunity to show her around some notable Buckhaven beauty spots: the rocky shoreline, with Edinburgh and the Bass Rock off in the indistinct distance; the ex-harbour, now home to rather less than the second-largest fishing fleet in Scotland; and of course WF Stark the butcher, the new World Scotch Pie Champion. For all its faults, the town of my youth is a seriously good place for pies.

I was in a bit of a quandary at New Year: Chris & Leyla are over here at the moment and were planning to be in Edinburgh over Hogmanay, so I was itching to get over there to see them again. Unfortunately, Ash’s imminent exams had her in a minor fit of nerves which in turn brought on a bout of the cold, and I really didn’t want to leave her to see in the new year by her snuffling self. She ended the deadlock by pleading with me to bugger off and leave her to study and recuperate. I agreed under protest.

Jeff & Devon were hosting a mini Hogmanay party, so after a few phone calls I picked up Chris & Leyla from a friend’s house in Corstorphine and drove the rest of the way into town, the car alive with ridiculous chat and reminiscence. It was fantastic to see them again. We kept on blethering away at the party, and at one point I had an abrupt realisation: “Wow, I forgot you guys were married. Of course, I remember playing the bagpipes at your wedding. That was mental—I was scared for half the day and drunk for the rest.”

Chris: “Yeah, me too.”

Ally G was also in attendance, and in a reprise of our most recent holding-forth on typography, we spent an age talking about modernist architecture, or at least our hazy understandings of it. I was particularly enthused that day: for all the times I’ve marvelled at straight lines and textured concrete on holiday, I’d come across some amazing, textbook concrete monstrosities/masterpieces on Christmas Day when Ash and I came to the flats at the end of Shore Street. These won a Saltire Award back in 1973, and only 35 years later (the concrete is still barely touched by the weather and shone even in the dim winter afternoon) are already being demolished to be replaced by soulless, faux miner’s cottages.

I took some photos with my phone, intending to proudly preserve part of Buckhaven’s otherwise undistinguished architectural heritage but irritatingly they seem to have vanished into the electronic ether without a trace. The sad thing is, judging by the new foundations being built in the muddy wasteground where the first demolished blocks used to be, the rest may even be gone by the next time I’m home!

Anyway, enough wallowing. Merry (belated) Christmas and a Happy (less belated) New Year!