Well, it’s that time of year again already: the beginning of September and Christmas looms. Pardon? The first of the month finds my daughter and I, under surprisingly blue skies and in warm sunshine, swimming in the outdoor pool of a south coast hotel that has definitely, like myself, seen better days. (By lunch-time, the weather had remembered who and where it was and switched on the rain). Against my better judgement, we are discussing all things Yuletide; and it appears that I am a late entry, other family members having already undertaken preliminary talks. It’s best to get it sorted though or else folk will worry and last year, we became a geographically divided family.
And geography is the first of the problems: some live in Dorset, others in Kent and yet others in the Midlands. That’s the blood relatives and not the associates whose families abide in Somerset and Oxfordshire; and who have yet to make the torturous decision of whether to spend the festivities with their parents or us. And it doesn’t include the ex-associates who may demand to see their off-spring. Even if they could all make up their minds, where would we put them all? No-one’s got a big enough home as my son, who has never forgiven me for moving to the smallest house in the world, situated in a twilight zone with sporadic TV reception and no hope of making a call on a mobile, constantly reminds me. On top of all this, two of our party are obliged to work on Boxing Day so that narrows the options down. And noisy children are also involved in this equation.
Well, for better or worse, we’ve made a decision. Off to the woods we go on mass. We have found somewhere beautiful, surrounded by trees and fields in which 300 Sika deer roam, with glorious views across the water. And that’s all I’m saying because this is a well-kept secret location. We will be together, yet separated by a woodland track so all of those who’ve had enough of the others can disappear quietly. There are miles of walks and a pub close at hand. Problem solved. Now, who is doing the cooking? And does it really have to be turkey?
And geography is the first of the problems: some live in Dorset, others in Kent and yet others in the Midlands. That’s the blood relatives and not the associates whose families abide in Somerset and Oxfordshire; and who have yet to make the torturous decision of whether to spend the festivities with their parents or us. And it doesn’t include the ex-associates who may demand to see their off-spring. Even if they could all make up their minds, where would we put them all? No-one’s got a big enough home as my son, who has never forgiven me for moving to the smallest house in the world, situated in a twilight zone with sporadic TV reception and no hope of making a call on a mobile, constantly reminds me. On top of all this, two of our party are obliged to work on Boxing Day so that narrows the options down. And noisy children are also involved in this equation.
Well, for better or worse, we’ve made a decision. Off to the woods we go on mass. We have found somewhere beautiful, surrounded by trees and fields in which 300 Sika deer roam, with glorious views across the water. And that’s all I’m saying because this is a well-kept secret location. We will be together, yet separated by a woodland track so all of those who’ve had enough of the others can disappear quietly. There are miles of walks and a pub close at hand. Problem solved. Now, who is doing the cooking? And does it really have to be turkey?
Yes, it has to be turkey!
ReplyDeleteNot turkey again!
ReplyDelete