I like to spend Christmas alone. My parents are very understanding and allow me to do this. What happens is that they come down from Suffolk to London a few days before Christmas Eve, this year it was in the cafe by the side of Somerset House Ice Rink, and we exchange cards, presents, and so on. Then I spend the festive period here in Highgate by myself. On the 25th I phone my parents, then I go off to feed the ducks in Waterlow Park.

I think that if you're no longer a child, or don't have children, Christmas can be incredibly depressing. I remember the Christmas when I realised my childhood was over. I cried for hours. So now I take advantage of the quietness of the season, and so deliberately choose to take the Garbo option. I want to be alone. To take stock of where I've been, and where I'm going. If anywhere. To think about life. To think about my life.

Today, I had a small adventure. On Robert Elms' BBC London radio show, he announced that he'd forgotten to bring in his copy of the experimental composer Gavin Bryars' "Jesus' Blood Never Failed Me Yet", the version with Tom Waits, with which Mr Elms signs off every Christmas Eve. It's an incredibly moving piece based around a sound loop of a (now dead) homeless but unusually teetotal tramp circa 1971 who would walk around the Elephant & Castle area singing the same song to himself over and over again:

<i>"Jesus' blood never failed me yet
Never failed me yet
Jesus' blood never failed me yet
There's one thing I know
For he loves me so
Jesus' blood never failed me yet
Never failed me yet
Jesus' blood never failed me yet
There's one thing I know
For he loves me so…"</i>

From Mr Bryars' own sleeve notes: " I copied the loop onto a continuous reel of tape, thinking about perhaps adding an orchestrated accompaniment to this. The door of the recording room opened on to one of the large painting studios and I left the tape copying, with the door open, while I went to have a cup of coffee. When I came back I found the normally lively room unnaturally subdued. People were moving about much more slowly than usual and a few were sitting alone, quietly weeping."

On the recording, the loop fills up the entire CD (75 minutes or so), gradually adding instruments one by one until a full orchestra is playing along. Then Tom Waits appears and sings along with the tramp in his own fashion.

Mr Elms appealed on air for someone to bring in their own copy to the studio. So I got on a tube and went to BBC London in Marylebone High Street. I mentioned to the producers that I'd been to the radio station before, when Orlando performed in session for Mr Elms when it used to be called GLR. I don't think they were that interested or impressed with this information, but they were grateful for the CD and my mercy dash, and gave me a bottle of beer. And I got to go on air for a few seconds.

Afterwards, I walked around Central London for about an hour, feeling less human than ever, and more like one of those angels from "Wings Of Desire" in my big black coat. Feeling apart from it all. Alone at Christmas, yet surrounded by people. Staring at them all as I go by, wondering about their lives. Walking through Bond Street, Oxford Street, taking a bus to Camden Town to buy a copy of "Monsiur de Phocas" by Jean Lorrain, as recommended by Alice ( <lj user=fadedglamour>) to me at Trash last night. Saying hello to Andy R ( <lj user=andypop>) there, shortly before he goes off to see his own daughter in Dorset. I buy some bleach at Boots with which to do my roots, then I go to Camden Odeon for my customary Christmas Eve film. This year, "Dirty Pretty Things", a movie about desperate illegal immigrants surviving in London. I enjoyed it, but there were a few aspects of the film where I found myself thinking I could have done a better job of the screenplay myself. I never used to think this before. Perhaps this means I'm becoming more of a writer. More likely, it probably just means I <i>think</i> I'm becoming more of a writer.

As I write this, BBC2 are showing a documentary about how people spent Christmas during World War II. So, a day where I'm reminded of the homeless, the refugees, and those living in more precarious times of old. Doubtless to add, with all my neuroses, lack of money, and lack of direction in my life, I do realise just how lucky I am tonight. I am safe, and warm, and sheltered, and watered, and fed. And in blissful solitude in lovely leafy Highgate. And I can do whatever I want. Or nothing at all. And I am extremely grateful.

Some might say it's a bit sad, even Scrooge-like, to prefer to spend Christmas alone, and to have no one to snuggle under the mistletoe with. Well, in that case, let this diary entry be my virtual kiss to you all. Or a virtual polite handshake, if that's what you'd prefer. MWAH!

A Very Merry Christmas to you all.