What do they want for Christmas ?
Every year the same
Thinking about gifts for others
A book, some socks, a game ?
It’s better to think of others
Than always to think of me
But getting it right at Christmas
Is never a certainty.
Have they already got one ?
Perhaps they’ve got two or three
Will they want chocolate golf balls ?
I wouldn’t if it were me.
Whatever you give at Christmas
And when the excitement mounts
Remember to think of others
It’s really the thought that counts.
A couple float horizontally in mid air. His right arm is around her shoulders, holding her close. Her right leg is over his and her right arm is spread over his chest. A state of bliss.
Friday morning. I got up earlier than I would have done on a normal weekday, and didn’t mind. Packing the car up mostly with things that I wouldn’t need, but nevertheless wanted to take, I remembered that I ought to check the oil. It’s not something that I often do, but the last service was back in March, nine months ago, and I didn’t want to be stuck in the middle of nowhere at the side of a busy road waiting for assistance. Assistance, I might add, for which I would have to pay extra, not having renewed my membership last time it lapsed.
It was still dark as I grappled with the bonnet release catch to get at the engine. Getting the dipstick out was easy; it was getting it back in which was problematic. After some minutes of trying I headed back into the house to find a torch. I keep one in the airing cupboard upstairs because it’s always too dark to find anything in there. There was enough oil. There always is. It was time to go.
My leaving-the-house routine is always the same when I go away for more than a day. It starts upstairs always with the same questions. Are all the windows shut, and are all the taps off ? The fact that it’s winter and I know the windows haven’t been opened in the first place is irrelevant. Then there’s the decision about the central heating. Off or timed. The downstairs routine involves checking the oven about three times, and wondering whether to leave lights on, to make it look like someone’s in. This time I decided to switch the central heating and the lights off. It’s actually the same decision every time, but I still have to make it.
Before I left the house, I rushed back upstairs to make sure I’d switched the alarm off properly. I’ve gone off before and left it on snooze. It makes an awful racket, and I didn’t want to annoy the artists next door. I closed the font door behind me, locked it, and rattled the handle a couple of times just to check the door really was locked. It was still dark, so the usual mental chime to clear the fallen leaves from the garden didn’t happen. It would, though, on my return. I drove away casting the usual backwards glance to check the padlock on the gates. Lincoln Christmas Market weekend. Messiah CD. Tradition.
Lincoln Christmas Market was fun. At each turn there were interesting stalls full of wonderful goods to buy. Black Yak hats and candle powered steamboats stirred it with Lincoln Red burgers, dodgems and mulled wine. Festive music and flashing lights, mesmerising, mixed in with hot and spicy seasonal smells. The noise of the stallholders competing for attention. Children clutching their helium filled Father Christmas balloons, momentarily appeased. Fingers sticky from sugary doughnuts and lips brown with hot chocolate. The warm glow from sitting in the pub, snug with a pint of beer. A favourite date in the calendar.
The other market was different. It was bitterly cold and it was crowded. Movement was reduced to a shuffle. There was a limited range of attractions for children and some of the old favourites were no longer there. The big wheel was four pounds per person. That’s a pound per revolution. Dad can you buy me this, can you buy me that drowned out the calls of the vendors pushing their wares. I passed a pavement cafe that in the summer we had sat at sipping refreshing drinks. Now it was bitter, windchilled and uninviting.
Home now. Next year I will have forgotten the second Market. Blanked it out. I am programmed only to remember the good.
I bought some new Christmas tree lights from Woolworths during the week. Woolworths is closing down so I thought I’d see whether there were any bargains to pick up.
There was nothing in the store that I was interested in buying. Quite possible one of the underlying reasons they have gone bust. This isn’t totally true because I did buy some Christmas tree lights. 50% off and then 3 for the price of 2. Bargain.
I unpacked them and switched them on. Perfect flashing lights. Unfortunately after taking 15 minutes to untangle them they stopped working. Not perfect. Reading the instructions they suggest that you replace each light one by one until you find the one that is a dud. There are 200 of them!!!!!
Crisp, crunch, cold. Twinkly lights.
Sugar-dusted waffles, warm spices.
Hats, gloves, scarves, thick woolly tights
This year’s Christmas delights
Goldfish bowl horses yellow red green
Up down round up down round
Cameras flashing, laughing, keen,
Go again if you pay your pound.
One-legged fire-wheels, cap on ground,
Tall, double-green, Christmas tree.
Elbows, toes, lost, found,
Bath Christmas market memory
Terry’s on the urn; it’s his turn.
Tea for two ?
More like two hundred and twenty two.
It’s Tref’s turn too; he’s volunteered to do
The washing up
Of two hundred and twenty two teacups.
Sue’s out in the hall, collecting back all
Of Terry’s teacups
For Tref, in turn, to wash up.
The log on the fire crackles occasionally. It is relaxing to watch the flames dance around the edge. There is quite a deep glow in the fire and the warmth is perfect for the size of room.
It’s not very nice out. Sitting in front of the fire is the only place to be. John is fast asleep on the sofa, wrapped up in the throw. He only managed half a game of football this morning and now it is clear that he has gone down with something. Likely be off school tomorrow.
I think I can hear the owl again in the trees above the back garden, though what it is doing out on a night like this only it knows. I suppose we all have to eat. There are plenty of mice out in the allotment. I like having the owl out there. We have also occasionally seen bats fly around in the garden at twilight time. Only in the summer though.
Tom is out at youth club. Hannah is I think in bed. She has had a hard day doing retail therapy at Meadowhall. Nightmare. Joe I can hear whistling somewhere in the house. That’s a result! He is being relatively quiet. And finally Anne is ironing in the kitchen without the radio on.
All in all, we are at peace. Must be getting closer to Christmas. I can almost hear the angels starting to line up, practising. Getting their harps in tune. Loosening up with a couple of Bing Crosby numbers.
This morning I cut some holly and ivy for the Westgate School Christmas Market Cafe. This afternoon I finished raking the leaves from the back garden. At least it’s as finished as it’s ever going to be. There are still lots of leaves on the ground but you can see a fair bit of grass.
The front lawn hasn’t been done yet. I’m not actually particularly bothered about the front. I think I only cut the front lawn about three times this year. It has a lot of moss in it. The more the merrier as far as I am concerned. It looks like grass from a distance and doesn’t need cutting.
As I write Tom has just come back. Time to batten down the hatches and carry John up to bed. I am happy that I have a nice warm house. It isn’t a good time to be homeless.
Just watching the bowls on the telly before the Wales v Australia rugby match and note that the tournament is sponsored by Cooperative Funeralcare. Brilliantly blatant.
It’s basically telling its Saga membership viewers that they think there is a good probability that they are about to pop their corks quite soon and they’d like their cash thank you very much.
Do I book that holiday in Eastbourne or keep the cash for the funeral instead? Pass the gin Dora!
In our house the drums aren’t distant. They are in the living room. They appeared there one Friday night when I came home from work, along with the trumpet. The guitar was already there. A very loud combination.
In our house the study has the TV in it. I put it there so that I could control the kids’ watching habits. My desk is no longer in the study. It’s in Tom’s room. His need was greater than mine. In its place is the piano, next to the TV which I can no longer control without causing an uprising.
In our house the sewing machine is on the table in the conservatory. I am allowed to use the table though not at the same time as Hannah when she is on the machine.
In our house Tom’s room is out of bounds. It isn’t somewhere you would want to dwell anyway. Joe’s room requires some negotiation to get to the bed, what with game controllers scattered on the floor. The PCs seem to be permanently on in 3 kids bedrooms.
In our house we have a revamped shower room. It used to be my domain but since being done up everyone prefers it to the bathroom. I now have to avoid about 8 different bottles of shampoo and shower gel, not to mention the toothbrushes and disposable razors.
In our house the Archers is on in the kitchen every night making it a no go area. I am allowed in as long as I don’t talk but the mental anguish caused by having to listen to the soap precludes me from doing so. The radio is also on every Saturday and Sunday morning when we listen to Tom on Siren FM. We wouldn’t ordinarily listen to the music but we have to to hear Tom.
In our house when I go upstairs to bed and turn the radio on it sometimes blasts my ears out. It only needs to be on quietly but sometimes it gets turned up during the day so that it can be heard in other rooms or whilst the hairdryer is on.
You would think that when everyone is out and the house is quiet and I am alone it would be blissful. It isn’t. The silence is too much of a contrast with the normal state of affairs. I do like a quiet pint though in the Morning Star. The “quiet” and the “pint” are perfect combinations. In fact, as I think of it, the house has grown silent…
It was a cold Sunday morning with snow on the ground. Not icy though so there was no problem with the game going ahead. The journey to Caythorpe took longer than I had expected. This was partly because of the treacherous driving conditions but also partly because I had forgotten how far it was.
On the way we passed a white van in a ditch with an AA van in attendance. Also a short distance further on a grey people carrier on its side on the verge. On Tom’s radio programme he announced that Lincolnshire Constabulary had reported 12 weather related crashes. We drove everywhere at a top speed of 40 miles an hour.
We made it in plenty of time and John, who normally starts on the bench, went on after a couple of minutes and got pretty much a full game. Running around on the pitch was the best place to be that day. It’s great to watch him in action. He is a fine strong lad. I have to make a conscious effort to not comment from the touchline, other than the occasional encouragement.
We won eleven one.
The cheeks certainly had a glow to them as we strode round the golf course. At 2 or 3 degrees it wasn’t frozen and you were ok if the sun was out or you had your back to the wind.
Spotting the ball was a somewhat hit and miss affair when playing into the low winter sun (pun intended).
There was a certain urgency about the round which was played as a fourball-betterball. Mick and Gary versus me and Danny. There was a competition on so the tee was closed at ten am. Also because of the nights closing in everyone who normally plays in the afternoon turned up to play at nine in the morning. This of course meant that there was a huge queue on the tee with the prospect of us not getting away before the ten o’clock deadline.
We nipped over to the seventh and cut in ahead of a three ball which is why we rushed round – to keep ahead of them so as not to get in their way. It’s a good discipline actually. There’s no point in taking too long over a game of golf in the winter.
As it turned out the weather was glorious, even though there was snow forecast. The conversation was convivial and the game close. Danny and I went one up with one to play and we managed to scramble a half on the eighteenth which gave us the match.
Golf is often described as a long walk spoiled. Well let me tell you people don’t go out on long walks these days and a walk round the pleasant surroundings of Lincoln Golf Club is a delight.
He was buried on Thursday. The weather wasn’t very good, it being November, but there was a good turnout apparently. They were all there, except the Americans, who couldn’t make the trip. They had had plans, now cast aside clearly, to go to America.
He hadn’t been on the scene long although she had known him all her life. At a time when things had been difficult he had arrived as a knight in shining armour. He had renewed her happiness and offered her hope. But now he was gone.
I only met him the once, at the 50th wedding anniversary bash. He was a little overshadowed by the noise of the family, the rabble, but he had played his part. That night I wasn’t driving so I had a few beers and I didn’t get much chance to speak with him. I don’t think he was sat close to me.
He fitted in to the stereotype of his generation, as did many of the partygoers that night. The black and white slides evoked memories of my childhood although they weren’t of my side of the family. Quite austere memories really, not of my own childhood but of what I imagined my parents’ to be.
The war had not finished all that long ago and it was only a few years since the end of rationing. Now the funeral made it feel as if those days were back. Black and white again.
So now she will have to start all over again, if she can. It’s a tough old game but it’s amazing how resilient we are. It’s a constant battle though and she will need her family’s help.
As I write I look up and stare into the fire…
The apple tree buds, the start of spring,
The first sign of hope,
The flowers arrive and with them
Birdsong, absent for some months now.
Fresh new smells in the garden and the cleaned up patio
Point to lunch outside for the first time.
The flowers turn to green berries,
Unnoticed at first but getting a little bigger each day,
As the summer progresses.
We still sit outside for food, when the weather allows.
Though more often we complain about it,
But the apple tree likes the rain.
Holidays come and we abandon the tree to
Work its magic, and the apples grow fat.
Expectantly we await the first windfalls
That suggest harvest time has arrived.
Back to school and a bumper crop.
Up the ladder to pick the finest,
Bags filled full and heavy.
In the kitchen, flour, sugar and blackberries
Make a heavenly combination.
Outside the apple tree is now forgotten,
Its job done, leaves gone,
Just the odd fruit left, out of reach,
Bending slender bough and bobbing wildly
As the winter winds wreak havoc on the garden.
The apples, stored in the shed
Won’t last the winter…
For Ann Cookson
These leaves are not alone
They are dangerous to leave,
The grass will die
And we’ll all know why,
Because I left it till later.
Too late? Err…
Rakers of the world unite
We need your help, before tonight:-)
Turn over that old leaf
Blow wind blow
Get them out of my gutters and off the grass
Later…they are mostly gone now, though there are still a few heaps to shift. No room left on the compost heap though.
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