It’s coming. You can smell it, all clove and cinnamon, goose fat and sage, pine and wood smoke. You can see it in every string of lights draped across house fronts, in the reflections of trimmed trees in shop windows. You can hear it, in the way tunes are made seasonal with the addition of sleigh bell samples, in the groan when an unsuspecting victim gets Whamageddoned (my Waterloo was early this year as a rickshaw span past blaring the song while we were looking at the deccoes in the fashion district round Bond and South Molton Streets—a literal drive-by).
However the season hits you, I hope it’s gentle and easy and warm and sweet. Something a little different next week, as I issue an Annual Report, which will include a couple of short stories from me to ease you through Betwixtmas. I always bang on about being a writer. Here comes the proof.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
Continue reading The Swipe Volume 1 Chapter 44