2004-12-13 - 12:10 p.m.

I had a vaguely liver-friendly weekend, bracing myself as I am for the alcoholic carnage of the following six days, into which are crammed practically all my Yuletide socialising commitments, pressed up against each other like so many thirsty office workers groping for warm lager at an open bar.

Come Sunday I�ll be browsing e-bay for spare internal organs, but for now, it�s the calm before the storm.

Seeing as I am facing the New Year being bought to me in glorious unemployment-o-rama, though, I�m happily making the most of the gratis grub and free fodder. After all, next Christmas party season I�ll probably be forced to grope myself over a tumbler of cheap gin in a makeshift stationery cupboard. Luckily, I do that most nights anyway.

Facing a jobless January is nothing new, all part and parcel in the tenuous enterprise of the lance we call free. There�s no pretending I�m not bricking it like a hod carrier on speed, though. No matter how much you big yourself up, constantly repeating the mantra �risk is the currency of the Gods� looks a bit lame when you�re paying your rent cheque with a mountain of loose change and asking your parents to buy you food.

And it�s not like I�m taking some bold step into the unknown. I�m unemployed because my regular company is moving. I could go too, but it�s going to be a long way away, and I can�t face commuting. I don�t think laziness can also be the currency of the Gods, and that�s why I think they will take great pleasure in smiting me. I�m psyching myself up for the great plague of unwatchable daytime TV (will I notice the difference?), the killing of my first born goldfish, etc.