O'er all the weary world

It begins again, but, this year, almost imperceptibly. To say I’m not organised is an understatement. Arriving late at work the other day, I noticed that I had my dress on back to front. It doesn’t bode well. The first week in December and normally I’d have the presents purchased and wrapped; possibly, even placed under the tree. The tree doesn’t yet exist and neither do most of the gifts. My turkey is not waiting its turn on the butcher’s list because there isn’t going to be a turkey. What might replace the foul fowl is, as yet, undecided. At what point will Christmas begin? Actually, looking in my diary, I find it might have started without me noticing. Seven nights out on the trot and that doesn’t include daytime celebrations.

We went over to the Rex at Wareham last night to see Andrea Arnold’s new take on Wuthering Heights. This is not for the faint-hearted or those seeking bonnets. Life at the farmhouse was dirty and vicious. Some of the sparse audience got up and left. Perhaps they were expecting Keira Knightly. It was so atmospheric that we had to cover ourselves with our coats to stave off the wind from the Yorkshire moors. That might just have been the Rex though. Jocelyn, from the ticket office, came in to watch the second half of the film and promptly fell asleep in the front row. Loudly. We’re talking snoring here. Emotionally exhausted, we made our dark way back to the car. We’re going to see a professional story-teller doing A Christmas Carol on Monday. Chrissie says it will be more uplifting. Don’t count your turkeys…

Tonight, the carol service. It’s a dilemma for those of us that don’t really believe in the story but like the music. The torrential rain beats down on the wooden roof of the church but can’t drown out the sounds of our singing. Sue and I are sat behind friends. During the mince pies and chocolate- covered ginger biscuit preamble, I’ve already mentioned to everyone that I can’t hold a tune but, to my left, is a woman with a loud and beautiful voice. The friends in front keep turning round to look. They think it’s me; that I’ve been joking about my musical abilities. The choir offer renditions of French and Cornish Christmas songs. How apposite that they’ve chosen the places where I’ve spent the last year. And how thankful I am to be in Dorset and not falling off the map in Barbary.

Tomorrow it’s the Christmas lunch at work and Saturday sees us at Christchurch Priory for the Messiah. Meanwhile, I receive a short message from the million-miles-away travelling man-child to tell me Laos is beautiful. I knew it would be. The next time I have any money I’m going to the Mekong Delta. For now, after a transient year, I’m sticking with regained friends and cherished customs.

And which Christmas carol does the title of this blog come from?