The Christmas tree lights glow softly this morning, a thousand unwrapped presents and bits of colourful paper strewn on the floor beneath it. Outside, a few token clouds stretch over the great expanse of blue, and an impossibly low sun casts long shadows over three-day-old snow. We contemplate cleaning up the aftermath of our Christmas gift exchange.

It seems to be a growing tradition with us to have a delayed holiday. As we grow older, as families grow more extended, as the list of commitments gets longer and even longer, Thanksgivings and Christmases and birthdays don't seem to fall on the actual days themselves, but rather on a day where everyone can get together. Christmas for Greg and me and his family happened last night.

We sat around the tree yesterday, passing boxes around and tearing the paper off each one, thanking our various Santas for the good gifts and laughing at the gag ones. As seems to be the growing norm, Greg and I didn't get each other anything this year. For one thing, we didn't have the time to get anything for each other; for another thing, we wouldn't know what to get. What we did enjoy was getting the family together, joking and laughing and hugging and just having a grand old time.

You know, as difficult as 2003 was, as stressful and emotionally draining as the past twelve months have been, as much as I've said it was one of the most demanding years in recent history, we know we really have to count our blessings. We're incredibly lucky to have what we have, really we are.

And most important of all, we both realise it. Farewell, 2003.

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I'm in the middle of a tea party with Kelly tonight when she takes me by the hand and pulls me to the big window near the front door. Kelly is Greg's four year old cousin, and while the grownups talk about this and that, while they watch tv and play board games, while they eat and drink and laugh, Kelly and I are having a tea party in front of the fire, where it is warm and cosy and crackling gently into the night air. We're standing at the window, and Kelly points to the snow. "I see snow," she says. "And I see rocks. And trees."

"Do you see that star?" I ask. I point to a star twinkling bright in the darkened Vermont sky, and her eyes follow mine.

"Oooh, a star." She points to it, her tiny fingers curled tight and her eyes wide open and all lit up. "Do you think that's a wishing star?"

"Maybe it is. Why don't you close your eyes and try making a wish?"

She looks at the star and sighs as only a four year old can sigh. "I'll make a wish," she says, "but you know they only come true in movies." And just as quickly, she grabs me by the hand again and takes me back to our tea party in front of the fire.

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Merry Christmas to you and you and you.

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The four old men laugh as they jostle about in the unsteady drizzle. At 58th and 5th I watch them grinning for the camera, three posing at a time as the fourth snaps the photo. Their hair, once black or brown or red or blond, fly about in the wind, fine like wisps of white spider's silk and cotton candy. They must be octogenarians, I think, the four friends strolling about midtown and snapping photos of one another. Behind them, a dozen trees wrapped in white lights sparkle and shine in the winter grayness, and the Paris Theatre beckons with its art film posters a block beyond.

I watch the three being photographed, their grins in place for a few seconds before the flash goes off. Then the photographer switches places. More grins and another flash. Then someone comes by and the friends ask if the stranger would mind taking a photo of the four of them. The stranger agrees and the four stand together, arms around shoulders and cheeky, boyish grins on their faces. This is when a sudden gust of wind blows and pulls at the hair and the coats and the scarves. This is when they let out a grand laugh in unison, trying their utmost to reign in their unruly umbrellas, laughing and laughing and laughing. And this when the flash of the camera goes off. It all happens so quickly. It all happens in an instant. They all apologize to each other and to the stranger, but it's the last picture in the roll of film, and they think the photo is ruined. But I'm betting otherwise. I'm betting that it'll end up being their best photo of the day. I'm betting they'll love the photo of the four old friends together, laughing and laughing and grabbing at the playful wind the day they strolled about midtown on a damp and gray Christmas Eve.

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I had planned to take the day off from work today, burned out as I am from all the corporate stress and recent work blues. But I had an important meeting to attend, so I decided to pop in for a few minutes, attend the meeting and then head back home. After my meeting, I came back to my desk and gathered my things to leave. It had turned out to be a fairly stressful meeting, and I was terribly tense and ready to leave as quickly as I possibly could. My colleagues pulled me aside.

"We, uhm, have something to tell you," they said.

My mind raced. Oh no, another problem. Another issue. Another late nighter filled with anxiety, pulling of hair and gnashing of teeth. Another round of political wrangling. I could not deal with this right now. What the hell could it be now? "What's going on?" I asked.

"We, uhm, just wanted to give you this." And they produced a little bag with two carefully wrapped gifts, colourful ribbons and all, them grinning sheepishly at me as they handed it over. "We wrapped them ourselves, so you'll have to forgive us for the way they look." I looked at them in utter surprise. "We just wanted to say thanks for everything this year. You know. Thanks and all that."

I was so touched I almost cried right then and there. You never'd know it, but sometimes the guys can be so terribly sweet.

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The thing about meeting more than one blogger at a time is that the initial discussions invariably center around other bloggers. And if you don't read the particular sites being discussed, you begin to feel like a wallflower as the conversation whirrs on around you. And if you're as introverted as I am around new people, you slowly dissolve back into the invisible kid in high school, the one who sits quietly somewhere in the middle of the classroom, the oh-you're-in-my-class-aren't-you student you say nothing to until graduation when you shake hands and say it was nice knowing you but I don't think we've ever been introduced.

I went out for a couple of drinks last night with Matt, Byrne and Mike. It's interesting to note that the conversation went in no time from a healthy and polite "Oh, what did you think of this post from that blogger" to a frenzied show-and-tell of tattoos, fingers poking and touching and being put into mouths, and dares of paired trips to the bathroom, all the time gawking at the sleeveless and Mohawked waiter who ferried an endless supply of drinks back and forth from the bar.

I've been wanting to meet Byrne for some time now, and he's every bit as charming and delightful and deliciously wicked as I envisioned he would be. He's only the second blogger I've ever met, and if there's anyone out there who's looking for someone who's wonderfully warm and a delight to be around, someone who can throw back his kamikazes when taunted mercilessly by Clevelanders, someone who loves tossing ChexMix with wild abandon into the open mouths of drunken companions around him, well, I've got your guy.

Thanks guys, I had a fantastic time with the three of you yesterday.

The four-and-a-half hour drunken festivities capped off my recent drinking binge, starting last week with the company's Christmas party, followed by drinks out with Delvis, too much sangria with Greg, and homemade cosmos with Jess and Marc.

What's that sound, you ask? It's the sound of my liver screaming.

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They're announcing company bonuses today. The floor is quieter than usual, everyone on pins and needles and anxiously eyeing the boss' door as it swings open and shut. People are in giggly spirits, more from nervousness than anything else, and the air is rife with expectation.

Different people react differently to a day like today. Some sit silent, typing busily and pretending to work. Others are like children on Christmas morning, their eyes all lit up and darting to and fro as they chatter quietly a mile a minute among themselves. Me, I just want to get this over with. I want my turn to come and go. I have a thousand things to do and have no need for this unnecessary excitement.

It's the same thing every year. Your boss' name shows up on your phone. You make a half-hearted attempt to pretend you're not sure why you're being called in, a bit of false modesty for show. Bonus day? I'm not thinking about money, really I'm not. They slide a piece of paper over to you and say a few words. You mutter something back, your heart racing and your mind unsure of what it is exactly they've said and even less sure of what it is you've just said in reply. You get a pat on the back. They smile. You smile. Then it's over, just like that. I want my turn to come and go. I want it to be over and done with.

The boss' door has closed one more time. I think they're about to start.

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I woke up at five today, much earlier than usual, and left for work in the pre-dawn darkness of early morning. I don't normally leave for work until the sun is up, and I felt an acute sense of excitement as I stepped out of the apartment and breathed in the cool, still air. Everything was quiet as I headed into midtown.

Early morning Manhattan is so beautiful.

I hurried out of the subway towards my office, vaguely aware of how eerily quiet it was. Around me, the dull, orange glow of tired streetlamps illuminated Lexington Avenue, and shadows played hide-and-go-seek with pedestrians and cabbies, each warily eyeing the other. I paused outside the Citicorp building and looked up towards the rectangle of blue sandwiched between the giant skyscrapers. The sun was just beginning to reach out over the East River and a sleepy Queens, and all around me the colours of a new day were taking shape.

Early morning Manhattan is so magical.

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It's snowing in New York. I love a good snowfall, the quiet and stillness that it brings, the subdued palette of grays and muted blues that washes over homes, the soft whiteness that dances down from the skies and tickles uncovered noses. There is a gentleness that befalls the city. Silent images of a captured Saddam flickered on the tv this morning, and Christmas carols played softly on the radio in surreal juxtaposition. I turned both off. Winter was calling, and I headed outside to take a stroll around the neighbourhood.

It's lovely here.

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I woke up before six this morning and peered out the window into the winter darkness. The winds were still asleep and the trees lay still, everything perfect and at peace as I watched the sky begin to brighten ever so gently to the east. I lit a few candles and wandered about the chilly apartment, soaking in the somber mood as I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, music playing softly on the stereo.

I love unhurried early mornings. Saturday mornings are my favourite, more so than Sundays because of the promise they hold of the weekend ahead and every weekend beyond. Saturday mornings are full of hope.

Down on Austin Street, the Christmas lights hung from lamppost to lamppost glowed in the pre-dawn chill. A solitary truck sat idling as its driver delivered early morning goodies to the bakery on Continental. My weekend breakfast place, a bagel shop crowded with regulars by nine o'clock, was empty save a single customer sipping on a cup of hot coffee. I ordered my usual, salmon salad on a toasted plain, one large coffee--light, one sugar, and an orange juice from the glass-front refrigerator just to the right of the counter. The cashier smiled a good morning as she handed me my change.

Early Saturday mornings are tranquil. Early Saturday mornings demand nothing of you. They are calm and gentle and polite and are at once brimming with endless possibilities and devoid of expectation. Saturday mornings were invented for people like me.

I walked back slowly to the apartment, breakfast in hand and the smells of bagels and fresh brewed coffee lingering on the periphery of my senses. The apartment was as I left it not more than twenty minutes before, chilly and quiet, and a bit lighter from the sunlight slowly seeping in. I relit the candles, put the music on again, and am sitting here now, warming myself with the first tentative sips of coffee and staring in wonder at the rapidly brightening sky.

Some people love to sleep in on the weekends, some people like the hustle and bustle of a hurried life. Me, I wish every morning could be a Saturday morning.

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We had our company Christmas party last night.

Politics, politics, politics.

With few exceptions, I try as much as humanly possible to not bitch and moan about work here, but one must indulge once in a while: this is one of those exceptions. I worked myself half to death this year and was up for a promotion. I didn't get it.

Politics, ah sweet politics.

The memo went out around noon with the list of who got promotions in the firm, but earlier on in the morning I was pulled aside and told the news. I spent the next few hours fighting an intense urge to sink into a sullen, depressive mood, and instead found myself jumping up to congratulate and chat with my colleagues who had themselves moved up the ranks. I was genuinely happy that they had been promoted, and everyone talked excitedly about the evening's festivities. But to say that I was terribly upset is an understatement. Apparently there was an incident a few months ago for which I appeared an easy target of blame. I learned yesterday morning that I was made scapegoat. I learned yesterday morning the consequences of such an illustrious title.

Politics. I decided to skip the Christmas party.

I so badly wanted to skip the party, I so badly needed to skip the party. I didn't want to make a statement, but rather could not deal with having to put on a game face and celebrating when I was in such a non-celebrating mood. But I owed it to several colleagues in my group who I, myself, had promoted. And I had promised them all beforehand that a grand time was to be had by all. And that would include me.

At the last minute, I pocketed my emotions, put on a huge grin, and trekked with my group down to the Grand Hyatt.

The party itself, as with every year before it, was a grand affair. Food, drink, entertainment: it was everything we had come to expect year after year. Nothing there to complain about: it was tremendous, and we all knew we were spoiled.

The after-party, as usual, was where the real action was. We laughed, hugged, sang, threatened each other, made bad jokes, made massive asses of ourselves, and, as usual, drank way too much. Gin, vodka, beer, whiskey, shots of all sorts. We had a grand time indeed. I showed no sign whatsoever of being disappointed.

Or so I thought. Behind all my laughing and joking around, behind the steely façade I had put up all night long, my colleagues must have known that I was upset. At around 2 am, some of my subordinates in drunken emotion pulled me aside. "Patrick, man, you know you can't leave," they said. "We love you, man. You have to promise to never ever leave us." I almost lost it there, and biting my lip was all I could do to stop myself from the torrents of angry tears threatening to overcome me. I mustered as raucous a laugh as I could and ordered another round of beers.

A few minutes later, I put my empty bottle down on the table next to me and slipped unnoticed out the door. Everyone was suitably inebriated, and no one would remember that I had left early. I had done what I had to do.

The night was cold, and I gathered my coat around me as I stole away from the laughter and loud cheering of my colleagues. I sobered up pretty quickly in the steady wind and headed to what would be the first of a few other bars that night, where I ordered a beer and sat in the corner of a slowly emptying room. Soon enough, the waiter began cleaning the tables and putting the candles away. I put my beer down and got up to leave. I had sat there the entire time without taking a sip.

***

I've never been in a bad relationship before, and I don't know what it means to be dumped. From what I hear, it's terrible. They say it's as though you've had the wind knocked out of you, your soul wrenched violently out its naïve slumber. It must feel somewhat like this, I think. This firm, my lover and partner for almost seven years, years filled with long, long nights and innumerable weekends, had betrayed me.

This must be what it feels like to be shortchanged. This must be what it feels like to have your heart broken.

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Two years. Has it really been two years?

Happy second birthday, journal, you demanding old thing, you.

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There is an old ghost who lives under the stairs of my apartment. He's a cranky old fella, this ghost, and he likes nothing more than to bang on the ancient pipes that run through the building. Every once in a while when I have guests over, they would look at me in horror as the pipes begin to clang. "Don't mind him," I would say, "it's just the old ghost under the stairway."

There is an old ghost who lives under the stairs of my apartment. I've never seen him, this ghost, but I know he's there. Whenever I watch tv, I have to turn the volume up a few notches so I can hear over the clamour and the banging. I have to be careful he doesn't start kicking up a fuss when they're about to deliver the punchline, and so I turn the volume way up so I don't miss it. I've missed the punchline enough times already.

There is an old ghost who lives under the stairs of my apartment. I don't mind him really, this cranky old ghost. He's been here far longer than I have, and the building manager has told me that there's nothing I can do to stop the noise or to kick him out. Rent control, I think. Or something like that.

There is an old ghost who lives under the stairs of my apartment. I've grown accustomed to him and his noisy hammering over the years, actually. I have to; he won't leave or take a raincheck. He only visits in winter, my cranky old ghost, and on a night like tonight, when the air is chilly and dry and the bare trees outside dance to the cold, cold winds, he is at his best, clanging and banging and hammering away as loud as he can.

Every once in a while, I hear a wheezy cackle and I know he is there, warming up his precious pipes for his nightly performance. He begins with a tiny clang and a tiny bang, and then sometimes two quick explosions in succession. I think he's happiest when he's making his noise, and I'm happy for him, really I am, but I can't say that I'll miss him dearly during the warm months when he sleeps, the old ghost who lives under the stairs of my apartment.

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The skies are gray today, the city steeped in winter monotones. I peered out the window this morning as I brushed my teeth, looking for the long shadows that winter brings this time of year. There were none. Instead, the soft glow of a barely lit sky beckoned, and muted the rusting roof of an ancient Cadillac.

The weatherman has been talking about the season's first snowstorm for a couple days now. Everyone is pretending to be responsible adults, talking about business contingencies and having enough food and water and the city stockpiling enough salt for the roads. But there is a tangible excitement in the office this morning, people giggling quietly and whispering about the foot of snow we're supposed to get over the weekend. Even my boss, the usually stoic and no-nonsense man that he is, his eyes glisten and sparkle with that unmistakable excitement. I am still a kid at heart, he wants to say.

I just noticed that it's begun snowing. I peeked into my boss' office to see his reaction. He was looking out his window at the gently swirling snowflakes dancing silently down onto a quiet midtown. I can tell it from his eyes. I am still a kid at heart, he wants to say. You all don't believe me, but I really am.

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