Road To Nowhere

All right, so I wasn't quite as well turned out as a Lady Penelope Creighton Ward and my pink roller was certainly nowhere to be seen, but I carried out a daring rescue the other night on Oxford Road.

I rescued a woman mown down by a cyclist.

Yes, a cyclist. Because these guys can be the pedestrian's worst nightmare - The Hood in a fluorescent tabbard.

There she was our said pedestrian victim, rolling about in the road, right in the path of a bus which was, admittedly, stationary at some traffic lights just after the swimming pool. I nipped out, scooped her up my the arm she wasn't clinging to and yowling at, and picked up her bits of tackle and got everything onto the pavement.

I was aided by the cyclist with whom she had collided while she tried to cross the road.

'Sorry, I couldn't stop,' said the cyclist. Given the lights were on red the phrase 'Well you fking should have, you ** * ****.' But, you know, it's best not to get into blame culture when one of you is armed with a cycle pump and a beard (No, not me).

Injured pedestrian continued to cling to her arm and yowl at it while cyclist continued to try to help her so, as a heroine in shining anorak, I left him to it. Maybe not Lady P to the end but have you seen the weather out there lately? It's every so-so samaritan for herself when it looks like there's a chance of actually catching a bus.

Sadly, my Parker drives a 43.

How is it the smell of fish clings to everything, permeates everywhere and hangs around forever?

Having griddled trout last night for tea (not a brilliant idea as it turned out, but the griddle pan is new and so I have to try...) the whole house stank of fish.

I washed up. I lit candles. I sprayed essence of green fig liberally about several rooms.

I get up this morning. Fish is back.

there is bound to be some droll Stephen Fry-style reason why, which I'm sure I would be fascinated by if I weren't distracted by waves of smugness which waft about the man, but how do you get rid?

Seriously. How?

On the theme of Santa, I ran into him on the escalators of Kendals department store on Thursday evening. He came up behind me as I was exiting the lingerie department. (A small shopping trip designed, and quite successful, in cheering me up after a particularly grim afternoon).

'Yo ho ho,' he said. I turned round to find a very pink-faced man, complete with tiny specs,in the usual costume, beaming behind me. It's hard to be cynical in the face of cuddliness. A flurry of ladybird books and sitting on Santa's knee at the Co-op department store in Banbury, age seven, fluttered through my mind and made me quite cheery.

'My Santa,' you're early,' I replied.

'Yes, I come earlier every year,' said Santa.

'I bet Mrs Claus doesn't like that,' fell out of my mouth.

Fortunately Santa found this hilarious and half a dozen people turned round to see why two adults were laughing heartily on an escalator and one of them was Father Christmas.

I really haven't been a very good girl this year. Hopefully I'll get one of those 'think before you speak' things I've always wanted.

Well, almost. I have found a way of getting myself off to sleep.

Moomin books.

Really, a couple of chapters and I'm fit to drop.

Of course, they don't keep me asleep and they have inspired the odd bad dream, but there's something about them that lulls you to the Land of Nod.

It can't be the content being comforting. I read a couple to New Man and he thought they were 'a bit sad'. Of course its creator was Nordic, and they're not a people known for embracing the light. I think it's the rhythm of Tove Jannson's writing that induces sleep. I must look at this a bit more, but I can't think what else it is. Probably a fusion of things; most great things are.

It won't be the drawings, they're too interesting. She provides amazing illustrations which I'm afraid this little film doesn't do justice to, though it is very cute.

The content is great though. There are characters with admirable traits - Snufkin believes in 'no possessions' and revels in being a tramp. And there are those who are naughty. Little My loves causing trouble and isn't beyond enjoying a bit of red ant genocide. Moomin is a nice lad but is a bit of a wimp and hopelessly besotted with the snork maiden. Everyone has their flaws and their qualities and amusing character quirks.

Then there is the Groke. Everything she touches turns black and dies. She wanders the wastelands looking for light, a shapeless hill of a creature with hypnotic eyes. it's been said she represents that Nordic gloominess, but she is an excellent characterisation of depression, if not death itself.

The tales of Moomin Valley may be familiar from childhood. I had a couple of them, but there are dozens. Which of course I am now working my way through, thanks to Amazon making bookworm eccentricity an easy vice to endulge. I don't have that masochistic streak that needs those rainy Saturday, holy grail-style expeditions around charity shops. Just post it me.

Interesting what brings the house down in one country and what sets televisions alight in another.

(Though not literally, more's the pity).

We got that Scottish woman didn't we and somehow got over excited about the idea that looking like your average person in the street was extraordinary for a woman blessed with an amazing singing voice. Like being able to sing but not look like Leona Lewis was some sort of amazing feat in itself.

This is what the Ukraine had to offer for 2009.

Thank goodness for cultural diversity.