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.