Today I bought a PC. There, I said it, and I'm not ashamed. Truth be told, I have a lot of respect for Windows and the way it does certain things, and feel that I'm doing myself no favours in the industry by confining my knowledge to Mac OS (whisper it: 3% marketshare*) when there's lots of sweet moolah to be made writing about PCs. Plus – and let's be honest about this – I just wanted one. So having hunted about for ages, I find I have some cash to spend, and I picked up a good little deal on eBay.

This is a low-end PC by today's standards – 2.8GHz Celeron D, 512MB RAM, 80GB hard disk, DVD-ROM, XP Home – but it only cost me £199, it's brand new, and those specs would have been impressive only a couple of years ago. Doing some work on Pricerunner shows that to get the same specs brand new online would take £330. And if we look at, say, the 'best value' model in PC World's current sale, it costs £100 more and has half the RAM, and an AMD Sempron 3000 chip that runs at only 1.8GHz. True, it includes a 17in CRT, but who wants that when you have a decent 19in TFT? (I now need to get a decent KVM switch, but the decent ones tend to be expensive – like, £80-on-Amazon-expensive – and I don't know if it's worth getting a cheap one. Need to do some research.)

Very exciting all told, but I imagine it'll be a while before it arrives at this time of year. It'll be good to use Windows XP on a decent-spec'd machine rather then trying to convince my 800MHz G4 iBook to chug along with VirtualPC.

In other news, we have been alternating festive viewing on our MiniCine™ (as I like to call it. In my mind.) between my wife's choice of trash TV (Season 3 of Dawson's Creek) and mine (Emma's Christmas gift to me of the complete series of the weird, made-for-TV mini-seriesTaken). I don't actually mind The Creek, but the dialogue truly is fucking awful. The actors who play Pacey, Jen, Grams and Jack can sometimes make a silk purse from a sow's ear, but the rest of them are just ... shite. Every time Katie Holmes' droopy mug comes on screen, and every time Dawson "I-have-a-chip-on-my-shoulder-the-size-of-my-already-abnormally-large-forehead" Leery psychoanalyses another quite unimportant plot twist, I hurl abuse at the screen. The abuse may soon be followed by rotten fruit. Just have sex already, people. You're all clearly in your late twenties. Now granted, this show is aimed at teenage girls, so the direction I'd like to see the characters move in is somewhat at odds with the programme-makers intentions, but hey, a man can dream. And shout stuff at the TV.

Night, night.

* This traditionally-quoted figure is highly contentious. The fact is that most figures for market share are based on unit sales. Fair enough, you may say, but in truth people tend to run Macs for a lot longer than PCs, so if we're talking installed user base, and taking into account the post-iPod impact of the Mac mini, I wouldn't be surprised if we're talking nearer 10%, and maybe even more.

That was. The most. Relaxing Christmas. Ever.

I feel totally blissed out. The young lady and I have had the most chilled, fun, rewarding day. No timetables. No expectations. Just hours of each other's company, very good food, lovely gifts, and big-screen movies. (We have turned our spare room into a mini cinema with a projector borrowed from work; Jurassic Park never looked so good.)

More to follow over the next day or two, but for now many, many thanks to everyone for everything you gave us, in particular Emma (Jenny may frequently stumble on me holed up in our mini cinema) and Grah, whose mini tripod came in very handy for taking some of the pictures from the day.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all ... a ... good .... *yawn*

PS I never dance. But I was in such a good mood, and had drunk far too much of the very delicious red wine given us by the wife's boss-lady not to have a bit of a boogie to the B52s. Apologies to all for inflicting on you the sight of us shaking a leg.

57 minutes after writing the post immediately below, the cell wall broke, and I'm now ankle-deep in slightly soggy tissues. I fucking hate having the cold, and am likely to as crabbit as a bear for the next few days thanks to a combination of headache, stiffness, blocked sinuses and a distinctly peeved feeling that this should not be happening when I'm about to get a few days off work. Gah.

Someone tried to tell me today that Christmas is only a week away. Clearly, they are lying. I know for a fact that there are still a couple of months to go. Because, really, if Christmas really was a week away, that means that the last posting date is Tuesday, and that would be all wrong given how organised we are. So, to the joker who tried to convince me that a mere seven days stand between here and Christmas morning: no luck, sucker, I'm on to you.

Also, je suis vraiment fatigué. Too many parties last week, not enough sleep, and I seem to have inherited Chris Brennan's low-level cold. It's like a normal cold, except rather than making you feel like shit for a few days, you feel a little under par and sinusey for a few weeks. Joy.

In other news, I have a warm glow inside at the comments left by readers in response to my good lady's column in the magazine. And tonight I am making char-grilled lamb cutlets with cumin and thyme, plus sprouts, roast potatoes and glazed parsnips. If this cold holds, I won't be able to taste a thing.

It was very blustery and bright at Canary Wharf on Saturday; you can just see the old ball and chain peeping into view at the left of the frame, carrying a shopping bag blown almost horizontal.

I told you it was a big cigar. The picture – courtesy of Macworld's news editor – is a little out of focus, but then that's how I remember the evening. The other chap in the picture is Digit's reviews editor, Neil Bennett. I particularly like the way he is managing both to hold a cigar, and give the universal sign of 'rock on' with his hand. Genius.

While waiting for the bus this morning (Thursday; hell knows when this will get posted), I saw a van for New Old Scaffolding, whose slogan was "Our erections take you to new heights." I know of one other who markets itself with the tagline "Satisfaction guaranteed with every erection," which is also fun.
Tonight was a Christmas party from one of the companies in the market. Good time had by all, and I saw loads of folk I hadn't spoken to for ages. (It's very odd when your relationship with some people is formed and maintained through pre events.)
According to a rather fetching chap I met, I am "a chatty geezer". This was, I'm sure, a compliment, and appeared to be nothing to do with being talkative, or, in the lexicon of my rural Scottish youth, someone who is unclean. It appears to be something the kids are saying these days, despite the fact that he was older than me. The revelation could have something to do with instructing a group in the finer points of how to light and enjoy a cigar. Or maybe showing him from the bar at the foot of St Martin's Lane to Charing Cross station.
A most pleasant evening, and writing this up on the bus home while listening to trash pop appears to be doing wonders for any residual giddiness caused by mixing various cocktails with wine, beer, and a fuck-off Romeo and Julietta cigar very kindly paid for by the account of the company throwing the party. Many photos were taken, and if I can get some of the more entertaing examples from the paparazzi, I'll post them here for your amusement.
[ETA: The below picture shows New Cross in the still of early morning,shrouded in mist.]

OK, so I understand why Paracetamol Plus 'Contains Paracetamol', but why doesn't regular Paracetamol?

I have no problem with 'Contains nuts' on peanut packets or 'Contents may be hot' on takeaway coffee, incidentally. They amuse me, but I understand why it's the logical (if facile) conclusion of necessary consumer advice.

Another bonus post below...

A sample of English translation on a product we have in the office; the slogan of the company is 'Bring Wonderful Future into the Time Being.' Bless them.