It all boils down to this weird idea of time I had when I was a kid. Boxing day was the end of the year, and all the time between then and New Year's Day wasn't really time. It was that slice between the years which didn't really belong to either. The anti-time, when the sense of what was supposed to happen when was eroded by the forces of a negative history. There's the kernel of a story in there somewhere.
One thing I did remember was the match earlier. City/Doncaster, and we stuffed the top of the league bastards 3-1. Very charged atmosphere, the pop just before kick-off when the guy introduces the stands to the visitng supporters and turns to say "Doncaster... This. Is. HULL!" nearly knocked me off my feet. The stewards tried to have a word at half time about my use of "inappropriate language". Me and the fifty others telling the ref he was a wanker, aye. Though chanting "Who the fuck are you lot" might have had an impact as well. Ah well, I didn't get noticed the second half. Good match, but my voice is still fucked afterwards. Ah well. I don't need to speak much for the rest of the night.
Another barrage of anti-time, sucking away my chronological perceptions. Localised, this time. I thought I'd been typing this for an hour when I was only about ten minutes. I wouldn't mind but I've nothing in me to account for that. Maybe I needs more coffee...
Memes on resolutions and so on later. Car program and coffee now. And a re-read of the latest entry on mistersleepless. He's too good.