Despite a few weeks of rapid-fire social engagements providing plenty of grist for the mill, I seem to be suffering from writer’s block. I could tell you at length how to scribe skirting board or build a bath panel from scratch, but throwing down a few hundred words to describe anything other than DIY is ferociously difficult. That said, the prospect of publishing a substandard diary entry to a potential audience of millions (and actual audience of three) has never stopped me before. And so off we go.

* * *

After a year of Monday nights spent chez Jeff & Devon, I finally had the chance to return the favour last week: with an appointment out on Bute on Tuesday morning, Jeff asked if he could kip at our place the night before, and I was happy to oblige. We pottered along to Shawlands after dinner to take in a bit of the local colour and wound up in Stube—my default Shawlands boozing destination—after I rejected the various other offerings along the way with a cursory shake of the head. “That one? Too crap/grim/dangerous.”

Stube was almost deserted, and when, after about half a pint, the lights dimmed briefly, I wondered aloud what had happened. “Was that a power cut? Did a fuse blow?”

“No,” Jeff replied quizzically, “it’s last orders.”

It’s been so long since I’ve been in a pub at closing time that I no longer recognise the signs. This is a troubling development.

Disappointed by the early kicking out, we drank up (the fizzy lager tickling my gag reflex the whole way down) and headed back towards the flat, stopping at the Ivory for a couple more along the way. I moaned about writer’s block and Jeff offered me beer and encouragement. It was a great night, and it was followed by a horrific morning after. The mere whiff of alcohol is enough to engage my body’s hangover response these days.

* * *

What else has happened? In the dying days of my commute I’ve decided to spread the love around a little, so last Tuesday I imposed upon Neil & Vanessa for a change. Neil and I took in Rivals/Les Liens du Sang at the Filmhouse that night, and I came away impressed: it’s a well-made homage to gritty ’70s cop dramas like The French Connection (see what I did there?), filled with smoking, shagging and fuzzy guitar riffs. It tends more towards “drama” than “cop”, and struggles to maintain momentum towards a slightly abrupt ending, but it’s still worth watching.

In a fit of gig-going, Ash & I saw Death Cab for Cutie at the Corn Exchange, and then Nick Cave at the same venue ten days later. We’d gone to the Death Cab gig almost by accident, pulled in by that indie gravity which emanates from bands once or twice removed from your normal listening fare; for me, The Postal Service was the hook, with vocals provided by Death Cab’s Ben Gibbard. The audience lapped it up but I listened from the point of view of a semi-interested observer and it didn’t quite gel for me.

Nick Cave, on the other hand, was mental. He is, I think, half consumed by the characters of his songs: he’s a gunslinger, a two-bit whore or a tragic lover as the moment requires. The sound was dreadful—all riot-control bass and buzzsaw treble—and the special effects distinctly not, but the force of his personality was more than enough to carry the night. Excellent stuff.

Squeezed in amongst all that, then, were a few more morsels: I met up with Josh while he was on a flying visit one weekend, ending up in the stylish pomposity of Monteith’s on the Royal Mile under Jez’s guidance; and lastly, Ash & I went along to a quiet, pleasant and very grown up work Christmas bash.