Christmas Eve 2017

Hands up, if you've got a Christmas Pudding? Apparently we are eating fewer figgy puddings. People are going for alternative desserts because the young don't like Christmas Puddings... What's not to love about that hefty wedge of deliciousness?  Look, you can have a sliver. I'm mainlining this year.. Brandy butter, the works. And I will have a slice for breakfast on Boxing Day morning. A friend has made us one this year: so sorry, Marks and Spencer you've been sacked.

Very soon we will be joined by the family. I am hoping that there will be so much distraction that all i-phones and devices will be ignored for at least 24 hours. When I see our dependence on them, I feel disquieted and sometimes resentful. However, I received a card this Christmas that I think is lovely in its simplicity. I am not a religious soul, but the beauty of these economically drawn lines moved me immeasurably. I looked on the back of the card to read about the artist. It was drawn by Prof Ian Ritchie CBE RA, it said. I read on:"Created digitally with finger pressure on a smart phone using vector graphic software."  Amazing.

All that remains is to wish you all a peaceful Christmas, and to thank you for reading this.

Prof. Ian Ritchie CBE RA Mary on a Mule with Joseph 2015

 

Noel or No Hell? The hand-delivered Christmas card..

Have you pruned yours? I've tried to prune back mine. It has shrunk, through life's natural wastage of divorce and death. But it's still pretty long and straggly. The Christmas card list. I don't have one. I just wade, kamikaze style, through a ragged coffee-stained address book. I do not tick off who's sent me and who's not. Not interested in numbers. Not in the slightest. Which means that every year I am in denial about how many cards I need and how many stamps. Because there are always the by-hands. When you've breathed a huge sigh of relief that you've got most of your cards into the postal system, this large pile of local cards sits on a side table, admonishing you for ignoring it. For at least a couple of days.
It will seem strange to some of my readers who don't live in the UK to hear that we run around to our neighbours to post cards through their boxes.
Why? To save the cost of a stamp: a second class one is currently 56 pence.
To prove that we still can?
It's a joke! If you are like me, you covertly scan the house for signs of movement inside. You do NOT want to be caught. You focus keenly on the letterbox, and reduce fumbling to an absolute minimum. You avoid making any potential eye-contact through the window.
Then you run like hell before anyone catches you.
Well, you don't run because that would look infantile, but you assume a nonchalant-but-detached air, as if you are calculating how many Brussel sprouts are required per person, and hasten your pace in a determined fashion.
I've just done 6 miles this afternoon. I kid you not. I'm totally knackered. But was only collared once by a very good friend, so that was acceptable.
I tell you what. Next year, all but the folks next door, will receive stamped cards from us. As my dear old dad would have said,
"Bugger the expense. We'll fry another goldfish."

The Jaunty Flaneur..

Toby Wiseman lived up to his name the other day in The Sunday Times Style magazine. He introduced us to The Jaunty Flaneur, a shoe renovation service. I can see you smothering a yawn from here. But listen up, this might be relevant.
Dearest is blessed with piano-playing toes. They have not actually been put to the test but they look capable of tackling Rachmaninoff's Third piano concerto. This makes shoe-wearing problematic, as you may imagine. So when he discovered a shoemaker called Tod he finally found the comfort he'd been looking for, albeit expensively. The only trouble is, that after a year the rubber soles wear down and become treacherous on wet pavements. We have always believed that they were beyond repair. This article, however, gave me hope.
Today I returned from the capital with a pair of fully renovated shoes. This is going to save us a fortune. I am delighted and he will be. So that's Christmas for the old man all stitched up. I just need to find a pair of socks...

What do you say?

Curtain-Raiser to Christmas...

Went to Ronnie Scott's last night. Saw Ray Gelato with his fabulous line-up which included the especially talented drummer, Ed Richardson.  We did it first last year; so this was a re-play for us Ageds and the boys.
It was another great evening. The only disappointment being that there wasn't a drum solo. At the end of the set, I saw Ed Richardson standing alone by the stage. Emboldened by alcohol, I announced that I was going to have a word with him.
Son et Lumière winced and told me not to. Then seeing I was hell-bent, said he was heading for the exit. Dearest told me to go for it. (That's what I like about him, he is never embarrassed by me.) So I approached the young man and said that I'd been disappointed that there'd been no drum solo, as there had been last year. He told me that he'd done one in the earlier show. But, at least, I was able to tell him that last year's had been tremendous. He said," Thank you, "Darling." And this old lady glowed happily into the night.

Job done. So important, when you get a chance, to thank artists directly.

And I didn't feel the slightest bit bad about it in the morning.  And the head was remarkably fine, in case you're wondering.

Look, I could have asked for a selfie with him. Now that is what I would call consummately embarrassing. I'm glad to say, it did not cross my befuddled brain. (Damnit, would have spiced up this entry a treat..)

Christmas Comes Early, Delivering The Mother

I had a Great Uncle Willy. I believe he was one of Grandma Leyshon's brothers. Sadly, I remember nothing more, other than his name. This of course, gave rise to puerile giggles every time his name was innocently mentioned by my grandmother. Sniggering that was instantly silenced by an arched eyebrow and steely glare from my mother. (In the days when correctional behaviour could be administered subtly but effectively across a crowded room.)

Yesterday Dearest Daughter gave Dearest a bottle of Willy's ACV as an early Christmas present. She said that one should never wait for medicine. And that, dear readers, is what it is. So you can settle down at the back. We all have to just get over ourselves.
Willy's is Bio-Organic Apple Cider, unpasteurised, raw and gluten-free. Its secret ingredient is called The Mother which contains strands of proteins ( I just love a strand of protein) and friendly (thank the good Lord) bacteria.

Its list of purported benefits tick all our medical boxes: weight loss; arthritis; de-tox; heart disease. Even energy-boosting. No wonder the dear girl gave it to us before Christmas... Wonderfully thoughtful. I can't wait to take my first slug of it. ((Presents are meant to be shared, after all.)
I might, however,  just have to have a small measure of Hendricks standing by. We all know that that certainly can deliver the next day.. The Mother of all hang-overs.

Hamilton the Musical....... Hooray!

We've been to see Hamilton. Not Lewis Hamilton. Really...  I've told two people today, one of which was my brother (of whom I'd expected better) with the pause to enable them to respond with a gasp of awe. Bugger-all, in response. Very disappointing.

However, my erudite readers will naturally know about the hugely-hyped production from Broadway. Yessiree, the show about Alexander Hamilton.. cue mega-whooping and hurrahing. Can't hear any? You mean you haven't been following its arrival on social media? You've not familiarised yourself with the songs, so when your favourite character on stage comes on, you cheer and burst into rapturous applause? No? Me neither.

On the suggestion of Son et lumiere, I decided to listen to the song-list on Youtube last Sunday afternoon. I was half-way through the opening track when Dearest emerged from behind the Sunday Times with,
"What the bloody-hell are you listening to?"
"It's what we're going to see on Tuesday night."
"Oh God," he said. Which didn't sound propitious. Nothing worse, than when you are sitting as an invited guest and exuding disaffection. Or sleeping. Sonorously. As he did in Rent, many moons and German Exchanges ago.

But one thing (on a long list containing many... just covering myself, in the unlikely event he reads this while I am still alive) yes, one thing that Dearest is really good at, is embracing new ideas, and  being ahead of everyone else. So brand new musical. Tick. Historical setting. Tick. First week of previews in London. Double tick. So I have to say that while Rap is certainly not on his list of loves, I was quietly confident that he would  move on from the rap-is-crap attitood.

Hamilton is amazing. Groundbreaking in many ways. Unexpectedly moving and genuinely uplifting. Clever lyrics which you could actually hear. Historically interesting, and  aligning with so many contemporary parallels. We all really enjoyed it. I would love to go again. In six months time, possibly, when maybe  the youthful over-excitement will have  calmed to a level where habitual theatre-goers can simply enjoy the show.

Now I sound like a prig. Or old-fogey.  Never mind. Did I tell you I'd been to see Hamilton?

Twitching about Christmas presents...

Well, what are you getting yours? Socks? Oh, come on, you can do better than that... Though, in fairness, mine would be quite happy with a few new pairs. So he says. But might look a bit mournful if that was all he found in his pillow case on the 25th. Buying for difficult men, I mean, buying for men is difficult. However, I am hugging myself because I think I've found the answer.

We went our separate ways this weekend: him to Northamptonshire and me to Cardiff to catch up with friends. While I was away, I was entranced by the birds purposefully flying into my friends' garden. There was quite a range of different birds around a feeder. It inspired me. This is what I would  buy Dearest for Christmas. When he came back from his travels, I couldn't believe that he too had experienced the joys of watching feeding birds at Rushden.  In fact, he mentioned it more than once. So I showed absolutely zilch interest, apart from saying dismissively that I'd seen it all in Wales. Because I wanted to put him off the scent.
Dearest is very partial to peanuts (of the oily, salted variety). So I will buy him a big bag of bird-friendly peanuts which will slow him down considerably, and be better for his cholesterol. Then he will open his surprise bird-feeder. (Ta-rah! I bet you wish you could be here..)
And then, I will open my surprise present and no doubt receive something very similar. And how we will laugh about great minds and big tits.

In this unpredictable world, I at least, can be relied upon. To lower the tone..

I'm Dreaming of a hell-on-Earth Monday morning....

We get a bit excited about snow in England. I have been in a state of hyper-excitement today because it simply didn't stop until late afternoon. That's a lot of snow. Enough to reduce my husband and me to a complete Sunday slow-down. Slothful Sunday.


I could have been doing my Christmas cards, but why ruin a perfectly idle day with a tedious chore? I am so relieved that I have only received two in the post and it is already 10th December. Marvellous. Everyone else is obviously on a go-slow too. Or else I am unknowingly involved in a game of chicken with friends who are, after twenty five years of not seeing me in the flesh, wondering whether or not to delete me from the list? Truth to tell, my list is shrinking. We are surely the last generation to send Christmas cards in vast quantities. You'll notice that the young don't seem to bother much, either.
I think I'll wait until I am seized by panic. Or maybe, I'll breathe through the moment until it passes.

I'm dreaming of a White Christmas with every Christmas card I don't write.....

An Illuminating Moment...

I've decorated my ham-bones with tinsel, no less. I was so pleased with my ironic retro touch until I read that tinsel is making a big come-back this year! Fancy that. Never thought of myself as being one who was on trend. Marvellous.
Mind you, I'm all done with decorating now. I've been up a ladder and strung up a few lights outside. Wobbled precariously at one point and whilst berating myself for being a silly git for attempting this on my own, continued until the job was done.
What do you think? Subtle? Not too flashy? Guess Who failed to notice... Are we surprised?



Well, actually, I was. I thought there had been a breakthrough of sorts, when at the start of the week, Dearest said,
"What's happened to that bauble?"
He was referring to the one I'd recently hung in the kitchen. I patiently explained that I had replaced it with a Christmas bauble.
"Jeez, I thought I was going mad. You make things so confusing for a chap."
Yes, dear readers, I deliberately set out to confuse my husband by changing the baubles. Which I intend to do weekly. Not to throw him off kilter, but purely for my own pleasure. It was at this point that I realised I had  become a woman with too much time on her hands, and made a decision to return to work.
I wonder if he will notice?

A bauble too far...

"Lights, lights, get us some lights...".

Are you all lit up? Too soon?  I'm lit up inside. I'm not talking about the rosy glow of smugness that you can see in the dark. I mean my Christmas trees are decked and twinkling. And why not? Don't we need a bit of artificial sparkle to lighten the gloom. You will agree, I'm sure, that it's all looking a bit grim in all sorts of directions. So if mindful drinking no longer delivers alcoholic anaesthesia to all things awful, then, at least, let us festoon the place with fairy lights and bathe ourselves in glitter. I would, however, possibly prefer a gin. And the fairy lights. Don't see why they should be mutually exclusive.

(Of Life and lemons)

We don't put lights outside our house. We tried once. Paid a man to go up a long ladder to hang lights from the branches of our now late and lamented Wisteria. I thought it would look charming. For three nights they flashed like Tesco's. I felt like I should set up a stall in front of the house. It was such a relief when the lights fused on day three. It has put me right off. And yet I see houses around me with tasteful lights entwined around creepers or scattered over bushes. Our neighbours opposite have, this year, gone for the icicles. First night they were delightful. Just right. Last night, however, the sequence was changed and their icicles aggressively beat out  a coruscating assault on our senses.

"Looks a little like Tesco's," I thought, as I lit my modest candles in the window.


Post script:
Since writing this, the lights across the road have been put on static. Spooky or what? Much much better. More Waitrose.  I'm such a snob.