Who knows? If you want a deadpan punchline, then great. But did you really mean it? On the other hand, stating that X from SuchandSuch Monthly is a real card, and you just can’t wait to hang out with him out of work hours, may be taken at face value. It’s a minefield that less skilled writers such as myself face everyday. Anyway.

Hello everyone. As the new boy, and under the gentle pressure of Mr. Scott, I thought I’d dip my toe in the Blogbridge waters and see what either tickles it, or rears out of the water to bite it off.

I’m not really sure how this works; do I suggest a topic, and wait for the conversational deluge? Must I select a category, or can I post my aimless ramblings under a catch-all “misc”?

If a particular point of discourse is needed, then perhaps we may start with this:

Penguins are, most likely, inherently sociopathic and amoral.

Bear with me. When has one ever considered your feelings in any way, shape or form? What have they done for us recently?

I was once bitten by one of the little buggers. You don’t turn your back on one a second time, I can tell you. I think I’ve already milked that story on the first floor, though.

8:05am - Leave the house in high spirits, full of Coco Pops and January optimism. Step on a dog-turd. My luck holds, it’s long since hardened.

8:10am – Through the use of colourful language and a sharpened stick, I battle my way to the 20 square centimetre area of the platform that I KNOW my usual set of train doors will pull up to. Proceed to hold/beat back the thronging, briefcased masses like a Spartan at Thermopylae. But with less beard.

8:20am – Train is late. And my spear arm is nearly spent.

8:22am – Watch in abject horror as the “whimsical” train driver decides to sail onwards an extra six feet today. Cue an almighty free-for-all for pole position by the time the doors open. All chances of finding one of the few remaining seats in the carriage rapidly evaporate. Utter, utter bastard.

8:30am – Silently curse the seated masses from my vantage point squashed face-first against the Perspex partition. A fat man in a polo shirt is simultaneously playing a game of Patience and watching an episode of “Star Trek: The Next Generation” on his laptop. Make a mental note to hurt him grievously should the chance arise.

8:33am – Only at Herne Hill. Torturous. Through a Herculean effort, manage to extract my book from my coat pocket and elbow myself enough room to read “The Complete Works of Edgar Allen Poe”. Perks me up a bit.

8:35am – Imagine the fat Trekkie strapped down in the vault from “The Pit And The Pendulum”, awaiting his agonising doom. Chuckle evilly, and unexpectedly loudly. Some odd looks from nearby passengers.

8:40am – The Phantom Farter. As with every other day this week, someone lets fly a silent but devastating air-biscuit between Elephant & Castle and Loughborough Junction. At close quarters, there’s no escape. My fellow commuters look furtively around with a mixture of total horror and grudging admiration at the sheer audacity and pungentness of the deed, but once again the culprit isn’t apparent. I’m keeping a closer eye out tomorrow. This reign of terror cannot continue indefinitely.

8:50am – We pull into Farringdon station. The whole train collectively braces itself.

8:50am + 03 seconds – All-out carnage as over a hundred designers, suits and advertising creatives run hell-for-leather for the alcove leading to the staircase, fully 2.5 people wide. I grab a small elderly woman who was dithering fatally, and pick her up for use a makeshift shield and battering ram. With an improvised battle-cry of “Have some, chuckleheads!!” I ascend as quickly as the carnage will allow, stepping on as many toes, faces and groins as are necessary to proceed. A smug-looking designer with preposterously tight jeans and an “eccentric” haircut spots an opening and tries to beat me to it, but is quickly felled by a roundhouse blow with the old lady. The top of the stairs is in sight.

8:51am – As the smoke clears, I exit the station in a cheerful frame of mind, pausing only to set the old lady on her way and punch a Free Paper Provider in the face. Onwards to another busy day.

So January’s nearly over. That’s not wind blowing over bins, Monroe-ing skirts and removing toupees across the city, it’s the collective sigh of relief that we’ve nearly made it to pay day relatively unscathed. But has it really been as bad as everyone expected?

No doubt about it, January’s the month to stay indoors, draw the curtains, whack the heating right up and generally do whatever possible to preserve an already bruised overdraft. Forget about ‘black Monday’, my bank account’s still dreaming of a black Christmas. And the end of January will spell the end of the self-imposed £2-a-day lunch rule – if I never see another can of tesco soup ever again it’ll be too soon. Even through the festive season, the spectre of January loomed over us, and by lunchtime on Boxing day the sense of foreboding toward the lean month ahead had almost made me forget why I wasn’t at work in the first place.

But there’s a certain feeling of freedom that comes with an entire month with no expectations at all. In any other month of the year, spending every weekend in a pair of ragged trackie-bottoms and a Glastonbury ’95 t-shirt with more holes than the plot of an average episode of Lost, with only DVD boxsets of the Mighty Boosh and Operation Goodguys for company would mark you out as a bit of a loser. But in January, it’s not only accepted, but encouraged – the rest of the population are doing basically the same, so why waste energy on going outside. You’re only going to get blown headfirst into a puddle anyway.

And until January 17th, I hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol since new year’s eve. Well, more like 7am new year’s day, but it’s the same thing. And that’s not through some pointless lip-service to the tradition of meaningless resolutions, slurred into my latest beshtest mate in the worrrrlld (hic)’s ear in the last hour of the previous year, it was just through complete lack of both motivation and opportunity to kick my liver when it’s down. And it can only be a good thing really (of course, the Blackbridge 3rd birthday party more than undid any good this detox may have done, but it was more than worth it. Well, once Friday the 18th was out the way at least.).

The more I think about it, as an inherently lazy person, the more I’m starting to rate January. There’s still plenty of reading material left from Christmas presents to keep rubbish TV at bay (Phillip Pullman’s ‘Northern Lights’ is currently keeping my inner child entertained), and there’s plenty of good music around to feed the soul (if you’re interested, Burial’s ‘Untrue’ for the dark days, Geiom’s ‘Island Noise’ for the sunny-ish days, and Boxcutter’s ‘Glyphic’ for a spot of evening bassline confusion). And not only that, we seem to be being spared the annual Big Brother tabloid hype as the current manifestation of the human-cesspit-with-portholes is being roundly ignored.

So, as I realise I’m on the verge of an O.Scott-esque ramble, I’ll wrap by saying more power to January. Vote for me in the mayoral elections, and I’ll promise to shoehorn another lazy month in somewhere between May and June. By then, I think we’ll have earned it.

There’s a capricious irony to bedroom wear – after all, a strong school of thought will suggest that we should all be naked as babes when things get all horizontal and deeply nocturnal. But there’s a vast array of fabulous sartorial splendor that awaits in the world of Le Nuit A La Mode. The journey of cool can be traced broadly from a child’s He-Man jim-jams to a bespoke silk and barrathea mix Prussian sleep suit with original horn buttons and a secret pocket for reading glasses and a hipfask of port and brandy mixed with Tixylix and Ibruprofen for nights when one is plagued by thoughts of the days toil.

When it comes to slumber-wear, I’ve always been a bit of a ‘corporal’ myself. In other words, almost ‘commando’. But with a pair of shooting socks. In fact, there’s not really anything that tops a socks-only approach to nighttime maneuvers in the skirmish for style. However, this Christmas I received something really rather special – a soft denim-blue chambery robe, piped in calico cotton, from Hackett’s. I have to say, I’ve never been a fan of the brand. It’s usually the last word you see before getting your nose broken by the rugby-chav whose pint you’ve spilled all over the floor of an arriviste Richmond gastropub. But they really know their stuff when it comes to snooze-gear. It also supports a number of louche looks, which make for wild entertainment in the bedroom. From ‘furtive playwright’ to ‘jedi master’, the robe turns any humble and demure individual into a flamboyant rogue, treading the boards in the theatre of fashion masterfully and with great grace and elegance. The moral of the (bedtime) story? Kit yourself out for the duvet catwalk – you’ll never look back. ZZZzzzzzzzz

Hello and goodbye. I’ve been doing work experience at Blackbridge for two weeks - I’m in my last year of my English degree at Sheffield University. Just wanted to say a quick good bye and thank you, I’ve had a really fun two weeks, I’ve tracked down two thousand pairs of rose-tinted sunglasses, had my nails done, posed in Somerfield, ate some soup, phoned America, phoned Spain, googled, played with the paper shredder, played with Indesign, ate more soup, booked a mini coach and found out why the FT is pink…

Thanks for spoiling me rotten, love Elen x x

Well Blackbridge are definitely ones to party, but last night was really the icing on the cake, for our very own Birthday Party! A fabulous evening, plenty of bubbles, balloons and banter, and of course, one of my evenings highlights - some very baffling magic!! Card tricks galore, I had to scout the room for a second time, to get another piece of the magic action. I’m still trying to figure it all out…. Any clues anyone?

Happy Birthday Blackbridge!