It's not too late?

"Oh, shit. I think I've broken the light."

It was my brother, demonstrating his "-and then Andrew Symonds played this!" shots in the living room. I'm actually enjoying the Australia vs. South Africa tests: my mind changes every day as to which team of gobby, irritating little men (well, not little in the case of Sideshow Symonds; that's a different story, however) I like least. Having a father who was raised in Oz has firmly cemented my beliefs that the only reason cricket exists is to further divide the commonwealth:

"Look, I don't hate all Australians, Robyn. I just want, in the field of sport, for us to grind their tiny, arrogant, blonde heads into the ground."

Right. So no hatred there at all, then.

But anyway, it's proving to be an entertaining diversion from revision (which, of course, is going badly. Or, in some cases, not at all). And in our house, we like the underdog to put in a good performance (hence our love of Ian Bell), and so it was nice to see Simmo get a few wickets yesterday, and a fair few runs today. And, of course, my mum was all about "when I came home from Australia in the summer, I was on the same plane as the Australian cricket team". This is true, but would be a far better boast if she had actually known who they were, instead of asking Dad when he met her at Heathrow, "what? Who are they? Are they famous of something?" whilst his eyes fell out of his skull. Not literally, of course, but you get the picture.

. . . . .

Anyway, it's as if Christmas never happened. The turkey is gone, as are the ridiculous, gluttonous tins of Celebrations and Quality Street. And my Nano sits neatly inside the i-pod speakers, taking pride of place on my bedside table. My sister has gone home; this is something of a relief for both her and mum, because she's not allowed to smoke or get drunk in the house - her favourite two hobbies, and mum's two least favourite things. So things are far more harmonious as they are, with her in the North and us in the South East.

And more revelations! It turns out that I'm not the only individual obsessed with both Top Gear and the articles of a certain Mr. Jeremy Clarkson. Nope. That I have in common with Matt. Marshall, not my dear brother. No, he's too busy watching the Ashes on DVD to care about The World AccordingTo Clarkson. Which is a very, very funny book. And I draw many parallels between him and my Dad - "Yeah, what is the point of Greenpeace anyway?". And, I've got to say, I'm pretty much with the grumpy old men on this one. Sorry Kat.

But the best book of Christmas by a country mile is the Close Range short story book by Annie Proulx. And in particular, Brokeback Mountain. It's been a while since a book has made me feel like that; it's been a long time since I've cried at a book like that. And, well, it's opened the floodgates. This morning I burst into spontaneous, distraught tears at Lover, You Should Have Come Over. But, again, very sad. Especially when he sings, right at the end, "it's not too late".

Because it is.

. . . . .

"Maybe I'm just too young

To keep good love from going wrong...

Lover, you should have come over..."