Normally I dislike this time of year. Not because of the dark and cold. I'm a proper blonde Nordic type who goes out with her coat undone in January and I've always liked the way night curls in around three o'clock in winter. No, it's the unavoidable slalom towards Christmas. I will not bore you with bah-humbuggery bollocks. I just don't much like it all. This year everything is simplified: Paris for Christmas; back for a week; and then I leave.
Of course this does mean I arrive in Brux in possibly the bleakest week of the year, when most of the Western world looks a bit white and puky. Full of Baileys and dead birds, sitting at their desk trying to remember what their job is.
But I'm gradually nurturing a little excitement in my belly. Working out where trams and buses go from my neighbourhood. Working out what fun things I can do. Who I can meet first. When I can first drag some unsuspecting new friend to the karaoke bar. Oh Brussels, what have you let yourself in for?