Biting the dust

Well then, that's another one to strike off the list. It had some highlights: Killers at the NEC or whatever it's called now; Auschwitz in six feet of snow; Waiting for Godot in Bath (and waiting for Sir Patrick Stewart to touch my hand at the stage door); being on the radio for a whole hour in the local version of Desert Island Discs; Jordan and the birth of this blog; Burning Horses in Falmouth; burning skin and old friends in Provence; and probably the best Christmas ever at Holton Lee. Shame about the job.

It's New Year's Eve in the Twilight Zone and I am quite alone. Jack has gone to Swanage dressed in a pink babygrow and I have made an early getaway from the curry and scrabble-fest at my daughter's house. This time last year I was with Bev down in St Remy but I'm not in the mood for bonhomie tonight. Sometimes it gets you like that.

Happy New Year

Almost there

We have a strip of spotlights in the kitchen and another in the sitting room. As it's Christmas, I thought we'd replace the bulbs which had died some months ago; an easy enough job you would've thought. Well, once we'd been out and picked up some new ones. Leonie put the new spots in: the kitchen lights worked; the sitting room ones didn't. We then played a game whereby all the bulbs get swapped around between the two fittings and Jack comes downstairs (from where he has been secreted away revising) and does the man bit i.e. shouts a lot. All the bulbs now work and we sit down quietly for twenty minutes until the whole fitting in the sitting room fizzles out and we spend an evening unable to see anything. The festive candles look pretty though. The next day we go to B & Q to buy 8 lower wattage bulbs to replace all of those in the sitting room. But the light still doesn't work. Jack comes down and shouts a bit more and everything's brewing up nicely for Christmas. Another evening by candlelight accompanied by the whirr of a fan heater which has had to be brought in to accompany the blanket that's now pinned over the dining room door in an effort to keep the arctic winds at bay. The fan heater makes me sleepy; Leonie says it's because the noise it makes sounds like cicadas. Pardon? I don't care about the light which, along with the broken dishwasher and the freezer door that won't shut, adds up to the three things that might go wrong at one time.

You know how it is though. The next morning, whilst waiting for Caroline, who's coming over for a walk, Leonie and I are sitting looking at the defunct light thinking 'it's bound to be something simple'. Like a fuse. 'Maybe if you unscrew that bit where the bar goes across, there will be a fuse we can replace' I say. Leonie misunderstands and unscrews the whole fitting which, amazingly easily, falls out of the ceiling and is swaying dangerously on an electric lead. Leonie is too short to replace it on various hooks and screws and I'm not touching it so we have to get Jack. Jack comes downstairs and shouts very loudly. He manages to get the light back in the ceiling whilst Leonie shouts at him. I make the mistake of mentioning to Leonie that I can't believe she did that and Caroline arrives for our walk to be entertained by the first of the seasonal full scale rows.

When we return forty minutes later with sodden feet the row is still ongoing and Caroline takes Jack's side. Leonie has called an electrician who wants seventy quid to come and look at the dead light and I decide to phone Nigel who is the saviour of the universe. Anyway, the long and the short of it is that I have to go and purchase a new light fitting which I don't really mind because I never liked those spots anyway. And what else do I possibly have better to do on 22nd December? Nigel arrives faster than the speed of sound and tells me a long story about how he's astro-turfed two Hyundai cars. He got the job via the bloke whose caravans he wall-papers. I don't understand any of this conversation although I learn that the same company that does the upholstering for the caravans has made green seats for the Hyundais and matching grass effect curtains.

It is too surreal so I try to steer Nigel in the direction of the freezer door which, apparently, is not aligned to the rest of the world. I don't understand this either but because he is a super-hero on a par with Susan Boyle, Nigel manages to fix it for the festive period before asking whether I'd like to see some pictures of the astro-turfed cars. 'I'll get Jack' I say; 'he'll be interested'. There is some grumbling but no shouting on the part of the would-be reviser as he descends again into the now blinding light of the sitting room . Unfortunately, Nigel's phone has broken and as Nigel doesn't 'do' phones or boilers (or, sadly, dishwashers) we never get to see the photos. I give Nigel his money and send him on his way with the season's greetings that I also send to you dear reader.

Why I never write poetry

Out of the box

He sent out a text from his hospital bed
Can you bring in my lap-top? Was meant to be read
And please send some biscuits in with Ted
As I’m now nil by mouth and I need to be fed.
And please let the pigeons out of the shed
Ignore all the mess, just mind where you tread
When I see that trolley it fills me with dread
They’re treating me like I’m damn nearly dead
I’m so bloody cross I can only see red
It’s doing my brain in…it feels just like lead
And in fact he had really done in his head
As he keeled over backwards right off the bed
The alarms were flashing in blue and in red
And the patterns on screen were no longer a zed
But seemed to be straight lines pictured instead
While his mobile vibrated just under his head
With an incoming message that never got read
Saying run out of credit and signal’s gone dead
And we’ll pass on the news to Joan and to Fred
But the nurse had to text the reply instead
He’s taken a turn for the worse she said
I advise that the pigeons stay in the shed
And cancel the biscuits, he’s already dead.

Yet another day in paradise

So that was winter was it? Just as we were looking forward to the possibility of a white Christmas the cold snap snapped and guess what? It's raining again. I had a bad feeling about this day. It started last night: I'd just made a large cheese and onion sandwich to enjoy whilst watching the X Factor final when I suddenly remembered that I was having my bloods done this morning and was supposed to be fasting. Sod it. Couldn't even have a paltry glass of water.

Duly arrived at the surgery to be met by the happiest nurse in the world. 'Have you got a form?' No. 'Haven't you seen the doctor?' No...they told me it wasn't necessary. 'What do you want your bloods done for?' Because they haven't been done for six months. 'Have you fasted?' Who uses that language in 2009? Begrudgingly, she took a sample. Merry Christmas to you too. Onwards to work which is about as far as it's possible to be in any direction given that it and the surgery are separated by the second largest natural harbour in the world. And on to the first meeting with the new boss which was as appalling as it could've been.

Eventually homewards via the train station to collect Jack who appears to have taken nine hours to get here from the land of the sheep. Well it would if you come by the scenic route i.e. car to Reading, train to Southampton and another train to Dorset. No wonder he was complaining of travel sickness. Then had to break the news that I was going out on his first night home: terrible mother guilt syndrome.

A cup of tea, a quick bath and back out into the wet night for the Speakeasy Christmas readings. We were supposed to take food to contribute to a mixed buffet. Being as organised as ever, I stole a packet of crisps from the Christmas supplies thinking they would at least make a change from the three zillion mince pies that were likely to be on offer. Wrong again: everyone must have thought that everyone else would bring mince pies so we were hard pressed to locate one. Plenty of Scotch eggs though. And plenty of wonderful readings. It was one of those events that one approaches with some resignation, then really enjoys. Barely anyone had written their own pieces, choosing instead to bring out all the old favourites: Elliot's Journey of the Magi, which I had thought about taking was performed much better than I could have managed by the delightful Enid. I read from my other essential seasonal text, Dylan Thomas' Memories of Christmas. Judith gave us Betjeman's Christmas and Sue chose The Night Before Christmas. We had Hardy's Oxen....we are big Hardy fans: it's compulsory if you're a Dorset based literary group. And Corsley's Innocents. And Harding's Christmas 1914. And many more. It was splendid. My faith is restored. I took home a goodie bag for Jack: 2 pieces of Stollen and some white chocolate fingers. That'll make up for it. He'd gone out!

It's beginning to look a bit like Christmas

‘Ready for Christmas?’ It’s a mantra that the English love because it temporarily extends conversational possibilities beyond that of currently prevailing climatic conditions; which is why they start asking you round about the middle of October. After a month without a precipitation-free day, I was bored with them continually saying they’re sick of the rain. Now they’ve moved on to the past tense: ‘I was sick of all that rain…cold isn’t it’.

Of course I’m not ready for Christmas! How does that work when you’re in the day job full time? I’ve made a few lists: if in doubt, make a list. In a state of panic last weekend, I visited a butcher and ordered a turkey, a ham (cooked), some sausages, streaky bacon, two lots of stuffing and a partridge in a pear tree. I got the butcher’s boy to write down the date that the said order should be collected along with the opening hours of the meat emporium and made a list of what has to be done and in which order on the 23rd. I’ve made another list of vegetables that need purchasing on the same day, probably around 7am or earlier. Once, when I really wasn’t sleeping at all well, I went to Tesco at 4 o clock one morning. Apart from the staff, I was the only person in the joint so you might have thought that I had free rein. Actually, all the aisles were blocked by huge metal trolleys being unloaded by unfriendly looking somnambulists who were stacking shelves and who were clearly not expecting to meet any punters. Talk about night of the living dead. As I was transferring my goods into the boot of the car which sat in lonely isolation in the car park, I remember that a fox wandered over to watch me with some indifference. ‘Bloody cold isn’t it’ he said.

I had a few words with Samuel whose behaviour of late has been disturbing to say the least. Eleven of us are spending three festive days together and we don’t want any rows before Christmas lunch so, minus a bunch of lucky heather, I was charged with giving him the gypsy’s warning. Subsequently, he told his mum he was going to his dad’s for Christmas instead. So, another task handled well then. Meanwhile, everyone else appears to have independently reached a consensus to buy his six-year old sister a gift that can be used outdoors; like a road map. So far, she’ll be wearing her new fairy Wellingtons whilst tied to a tree with her very expensive French skipping rope.

Talking of wellies, there seems to be a national shortage unless you’re adult sized nine or over; in which case, you’d have been born with flippers. ‘It’s due to the weather’ said the woman in Tesco. Oh, not that old excuse again. Why else would you buy a pair of wellies unless you lived in a wet god-forsaken country. I mean, they’re not exactly a fashion statement are they. And while we’re at it, what’s with the pudding shortage? As I said to a twelve year old manger in Tesco… and why do I continue to shop there?......‘do you know there’s not a nutless Christmas pudding in this shop?’ When did they start putting nuts in puddings? ‘No idea’ says he; ‘can’t stand Christmas pudding myself’. Well that’s ok then. That’s the stock response from the rulers of the universe is it? Peace on earth and good will to you too.

I went for a walk. I’ve been shut indoors for weeks, due to the rain, so it had to be done. In a large pocket I’d secreted a plastic bag and a pair of secateurs. Look: this is council property and I pay my council tax; ergo if I want some holly I’ll have some. I’ve already replaced the three quid Asda plastic tree with a real life B & Q version…albeit, the smallest one in the shop. AND purchased sparkly twigs which are festooned with baubles. Now I’m on a mission. Except that I nearly forgot why. On a bitingly cold Dorset morning, under an exquisite blue sky, I walked along a beautifully barren edge of the harbour stopping to speak with every passing stranger and stroke their even stranger dogs. And because it wasn’t raining everyone smiled and spoke back. And as we’re going to be globally warmed, or because it’s going to be a fierce winter, the holly bushes are laden with berries, branches of which are now in my sitting room. I was going to be terribly artistic and have a few marsh ferns too but I knew they wouldn’t look as good indoors as they did at the water’s edge with the sun highlighting their colours.

Saturday night, we went over to a candle-lit Christchurch Priory for the Messiah. I sat enraptured in the stone-clad darkness thinking of all the Christmases that had become wrapped into one as they roll down the hills of our lives. Fleetingly, I wondered what we should eat for Christmas Eve lunch. During the interval, we went outside to marvel at the clear, star-packed December night. We marvelled even more at those in the porch with the foresight to bring flasks and sandwiches. Then we returned for the second part and you all know what that’s about. Somewhere in the midst’s of time, King George woke from a little nap and inadvertently stood up. And now we all rise joyfully as one for the Allejulha Chorus. And, as I wipe away that tear of emotion, I’m beginning to feel a tiny bit Christmassy. Cold though, isn’t it.

And so it begins

I've been summoned by my boss. That would be my new boss who, contrary to expectations, is not the same as the old boss. I forgot to mention....owing to the loss of will to live....that the consultation process is over, the final paper has been published and the new boss, who was many people's old boss, was slotted neatly in without so much as a nod in the direction of an interview. So much for the democratic process then. I've been waiting for the call for three days: I'm surprised it took that long what with marked cards and payback time. I bet she's rubbing her hands with glee although, in doing so, she will have dropped the poisoned chalice she's just taken possession of. Enough already.

For a past-time, I'm wrapping presents. I watched my daughter doing this the other evening. Talk about multi-tasking: she had the whole lot done in an hour max whilst simultaneously eating a curry, downing a bottle of plonk....we each had our own due to colour preference - red for me, pink for her...answering a few texts and slotting in X Factor in between the Alan Bennett evening. Me, I've been wrapping mine for about six weeks. I average two a night. This evening, I had extra owing to having been allotted the task of dealing with the old boss's leaving presents which have been deposited in green crepe paper within a handy box file. I told them I wasn't much good at that sort of thing but they're all too busy counting their happy pills to be bothered.

My son was due home from uni on Sunday except that now he's not coming because he's going to a boot camp for young entrepreneurs somewhere in the land of the sheep. His best offer was a lift on Monday to any given point on the M4. Reading it is then. From here, he'll get a train to Poole. Somewhat stupidly, I suggested that we didn't really need a Christmas tree this year and had been out and bought a few sparkly branches to hang the odd bauble off. Mind you, I did make a bit of an effort: was stunned to discover you can buy a tree for three quid from Asda. So I did. Got it home and opened it...it looked like a three quid tree from Asda and now it's back in its box. I could hear the disappointment in the silence on the other end of the phone and will now, of course, buy a proper tree some time between now and next Monday.

I asked the new boss if she wanted me to bring anything to the meeting. 'No, it's just a little chat' came the response. 'Well, I would like to see your appraisal objectives and your work plan' came the afterthought which was really a primary thought. I do actually have the former. Didn't know there was plan for work though: thought you just turned up, sold your soul, stayed there until you couldn't physically stand any longer, then spent a pleasant forty minutes in assorted traffic jams trying to get home again.

Something very scary.....or not

Being keen to experience all areas of culture, I have just returned from the cinema having seen...as advertised.. the scariest film of the year/decade/century/ever: Paranormal Activity. Or maybe it isn't. Perhaps it's just the most hyped film since the totally boring Blair Witch fiasco. I like scary films (as opposed to horror)but, like humour, what works for one person doesn't for the next.

These days, there are two problems associated with going to see a scary film: firstly, you have to find someone else who also likes to be frightened; secondly, you have to come home to an empty house. Sally and I went straight after work as it's Orange Wednesday. What a brilliant idea that is...2 for the price of 1. The timing meant that I was back indoors for 7.30 so now have all night to occupy my mind with something else. Like why is that light flashing on my turned off TV?

The best bit of the film was the audience. The place was full of screaming people followed by raucous, nervous, bordering on hysterical laughter. What a hoot! It's filmed over three weeks in someone's bedroom and as they didn't change the sheets once, they deserved everything they got. Better than Blair Witch and the last scene made even us hardened old folk gasp. Don't use this review as your bench-mark though: I can think of quite a few people who would be terrified.