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18th October 2013

When I wake up in a morning, early for work, my facial expression is like that of a WW1 soldier with shell shock. That’s my natural resting expression; a muddled, exhausted sort of horror at waking life. Then I drink coffee and compose myself. But when I’m at my most relaxed, it’s a combination of scenes from Munch, Botticelli and In The Night Garden.

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It’s this time of year I fondly remember my childhood when, aged 13, I told my 8 year old brother that Father Christmas didn’t exist. The next day I was predictably bollocked for ruining Christmas for him, and ordered to un-tell him. ‘You know how I said Father Christmas wasn’t real? Well, I was only messing.’ But he’d had time to think about it. He knew it made no sense. But he participated in the charade one last time, to keep the adults happy. And so with my innate mean-spiritedness fortified by the life lesson that lies are better than the truth, I was forged into the man I am today. Merry Christmas one and all.

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