No weddings, just funerals ...

One of my many bosses here at the esteemed broadsheet today called me "The Undertaker". The unwanted moniker came via mobile phone as I was just on my way back to the office having left one funeral I had just covered. It was then that he asked me to travel across town to go to another funeral. The earlier one had been for a teenager who had been hit by a taxi. This time, it was for a very wealthy couple who died in a plane crash. Many of my colleagues, including the Atomic Bombie, couldn't believe it. I just said I was a big boy and I could cope.

Both funerals were sad in their own ways. The teenager was due to become a man and turn 18 next week. The couple were being mourned in the same church as they were married almost 40 years ago.

Anyway, on a lighter note, here is a funny picture from the second Christmas party that I attended the other night. I'm here with my mate, Four Example, who graciously let me crash on the floor of his swank, inner-city abode. It's similar to the one I used to live in, but his is better. We drank plenty of not-so-free beer and then walked home and crashed at 3am after a beer on his balcony.

I had intended to travel to Killer Cali with him, but our times didn't match unfortunately. I envy this dude. Despite his attempts of blowing me a kiss, he's a perfectly straight bloke (so am I despite the pink polo shirt) with a dream job interviewing rock stars like the Rolling Stones and has an American girlfriend. Not that I want an American girlfriend as this would bring further complications to a very complicated life so confused by travel and geographic locations. I need solutions, not problems. Ya heard?