24/12/07 My sister phoned to confirm this evening's customary Christmas Eve arrangements. "You're not still in the huff are you?" she demanded when I hesitated to commit myself. It never fails to gall me when the expression a justifiable grievance is dismissed as a childish sulk. In fairness, Christine eventually apologised after a fashion, not on account of her behaviour at the film club, but for inadvertently causing a breakdown in communications yesterday. Apparently Muriel did go to Billy's performance at Drumfeld Museum last night, bringing three of her friends for good measure. "She expected to meet you there," said Christine, "So you can't be such an embarrassment, after all." As anyone who knows me will confirm, being an embarrassment is the least of my worries, but it was gratifying to learn that Muriel hadn't simply ditched me in order to smoke cigarettes in the cemetery. When I mentioned this, Christine said, "But didn't you phoned to ditch her?" This was a fair point and one which she proceeded to milk before passing me onto Muriel who was hovering, eager to give a full report of Billy's disastrous recital.

According to Muriel's slightly garbled account, the reading was doomed from the outset. Its commencement was delayed by a long altercation between Karen Balsillie and a heavily bearded audience member. Ms Balsillie, needless to say, has absolutely no authority to dictate who can or can't remain in a local authority building. This didn't stop her from insisting that the bearded man leave before the Dark Maestro would take to the stage. "Karen thought it was you," explained Muriel. Eventually the undesireable element removed the beard, revealing himself to be none other than Examiner reviewer Hugh Walker who terrifies local performers to the extent that some refuse to subject themselves to his withering analysis. Incredibly, having been exposed, Walker was allowed to stay on the ludicrous condition that any review of the show be presented to Balsillie for approval before going to press. Billy's subsequent performance was further disrupted by the necessity of two toilet breaks in the space of forty five minutes, an habitual response to pressure that jeopardised more than one investigation and caused his school mates to refer to him as Billy Ure-ine. The story itself was dismissed as 'retarded', admittedly a word Muriel overuses to the extent that it's meaningless. "But everyone thought so," she insisted when I asked her to be more precise. "Except for Daniel. He just thought it was gay."

Billy's humiliation lent perspective to my own problems. Re-reading last night's entry, I was chastened by its resentful tone. My immediate instinct was to expunge it from the record. On reflection, I decided to leave it as it was. From the e-mails I receive, I appreciate that many of my readers suffer from feelings of exclusion and low self-worth. Readers of the future will be similarly isolated (if the stark prognosis of the Scottish Mystic Alliance's almanac for 2008 is accurate, even more so). It might serve some purpose to confess that even I'm subject to moments of doubt. The temptation to withdraw occasionally presents itself to everyone. The calibre of a man can be determined by how he endures.

I spent the afternoon catching up with my e-mail correspondence before going to Christine's where my spirits were only slightly dampened by the presence of her ex-husband, Guy Pearson. "No jumper this year?" he asked, referring to a Christmas gift he'd passed on to psychopathic indigent Edwin Watson, precipitating a reign of terror. "I didn't actually expect to see you," I replied coolly. For the next hour or so I rebuffed his attempts to ingratiate himself with strained politeness. Spencer, who came directly from an afternoon in the pub, had no such qualms. Regarding Guy's proffered hand as if it was covered in a coating of slime, he proceeded to treat him with unconscionable rudeness. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't condone incivility. On this occasion, though, I felt that Spencer was fully justified. As his eyes twinkled with gleeful malevolence, it occurred to me that this time last year he was holed up in Fife, hiding from the his so-called birth family, the Patersons and threatening suicide. A year on he was defending his sister's honour and earnestly trying to reconcile with the wife who tried to kill him. At times like these, I wonder at the indefatigability of the human spirit!

Pearson's eventual (unopposed) departure coincided with the arrival of Christine's friends Liz and Isobel. Liz, as she never fails to remind me, was also the recipient of a Henderson Award for Children of Courage and Achievement. It would be tactless, of course, to point out that by the time of her nomination the awards were in their decline. The gender confusion issues for which she was nominated, while deserving of compassion, involved neither courage nor achievement. Hers, in fact, was exactly the type of frivolous nomination that eventually caused me to return my inscribed Henderson crystal. Christine, who is fully aware of my feelings on the matter, mischievously teamed us up as 'the Henderson Kids' for the games. My objection was stifled by an unnecessarily sharp elbow to the ribs which, on reflection, was probably just as well. Liz proved a very able partner and we trounced the opposition at both pictionary and charades, only coming unstuck at Jenga at which Colette, who participated in the evening with unexpected enthusiasm, proved particularly adept. Naturally, I was the first to congratulate her. "Hamilton's certainly in high spirits tonight," said Isobel. "Yes. His best friend was humiliated last night," replied Christine, an unnecessarily cynical jibe I thought it best to ignore.

"There won't be snow in Africa this Christmas-time," sang Isobel as we made our way to Drumfeld Church for the Watch Night Service, her smoky baritone quivering with emotion. Sometimes it takes an outsider to remind us that happiness is fleeting. Noticing an exchange of sneers exchanged between Spencer and Colette, I joined in with the chorus. As Isobel took one of my arms and Liz the other, we proceeded, singing defiantly against whatever fate might send to confound us (which, as it turned out, was a rut in the pavement that caused Isobel to stumble and twist her ankle).