Mullered and two days late for advent.

The walk to town was a long, rather cold one. About an hour and a half, though not as cold as previous days. All rather blank efforts for a cancelled appointment with a moronic support worker. And with little to do, and such cold weather to brave, I supposed my empty pockets wouldn't get me far.
The Pub was as bland as ever, same people, same music, same drinks. A generally mediocre sit at the bar. I bought Marzipan from the Market Sweet Shop, but it failed to lighten a dull mood in a silk dress and velvet suit jacket. Topped off with a leopard choker/bowtie, I was a little too overdressed for such a simple occasion.
I let this thought swim for a while, sipping a beer and watching Westhams highlights. And the occasion I had dressed for returned to my head, blatantly taunting me with a gut feeling. How could I dress like this, feel bitter and have completely forgotten my reason for doing so?
An evening in the bar, is how I'd imagined it. With a new old friend. And a reason for being here.

Colder still, now that what was the white light of a diluted sun had now completely evaporated, and winter's clear night breathed on us, I paced the next leg of my journey. Not quite as lengthy, but nonetheless testing on aching, numb thighs. For three reasons.
I stood in the doorway of a chocolate like pub, partly shielded from the cold by material, and he paced down in a hat. Im sure my phonecall would have to have been more brief.

Two more roads and three frozen broken and discarded coffee mugs later, we arrived at a garden to challenge the Young Ones. A quant door, one number too much, and I was greeted by two of them.
The instant scent of home, I inhaled as I walked in. Bloody lovely, I felt like saying immediately. The slim, and yet tall, ornate hallway it seems only Bristol is truely capable of greeted me with an organic vibe. And the kitchen was a picture of family friends, who of course were not related.
Billowing wooden work surfaces, planked cupboard doors, a fresh tray of warm mince pies and an old oak door for a table wedged perfectly against the wall. The two women, I was introduced to, and they were pale, English roses with a slightly jagged or curly edge. Clothes that didn't stand out and yet didn't need to, one side hugged me, a brief cheek kiss, the other leant over an oven in a space fit for Snow White's cottage in the wall, over a pot of Mulled Wine, and another with a lid.
I took a few deep breaths as i attempted to fit myself unnoticed into the scenery by making dull jokes of my friend. He watched as I shed my layers, the atmosphere overly welcoming. Though of course, I be I, never feel welcome, perhaps never comfortable.

When there were many in the room, it seemed a party I was not invited too, and yet clicked in rather warmly. I was most certainly younger, it seemed, and I knew only one face of whom I had seen five times, he says.
The Mulled Wine aroma was now collaberating softly with the freshly added spices circling within Mulled Cider, and a completely new batch of oddly decorated Mince Pies leaked their own from the oven.
I am pleased to say my Mince Pie was a Vagina, and that my cream was silkier than most others.
Christmas Music now replaced the odd from before, and conversation effortlessly paraded the room, between many and different. I couldn't help but simply breathe it all in.
"Oh I merely thought, Mulled Wine to celebrate December, drinking and merryness!" The doll hostess beamed, larger than life (but in a bareably modern way) - the accidental gathering had ensued and was seen as ordinary.

Do you ever end your night with warm Mulled Wine, in a picture house?
A flickering screen, warping slightly from the projector, a black and white film so dark, portraying the bearded lady, the midget husband and wife, the torso man, the pigmi women and the cackling main lady.
Oh frozen morning, and finally, Metropolis.