News from Nowhere

The snow finally fell in the early hours of this morning. It had been threatened every day for the last week, so we were lucky that it didn't come while D. and valydiarosada were on their way here from Ely to help us celebrate the New Year; or while they were here, and prevent us going out to lunch dates with J. (at her home) or with D.'s sister and brother-in-law (by the Tees barrage, on their way home from somewhere else); or while they were driving home again ... Two days of cold but brilliant sunshine, and we welcomed the New year in the way that suits us best, by completing the crossword and going to bed at our usual time.

So I'd call it an entirely satisfactory visit, if it weren't for the flush of the upstairs toilet deciding to malfunction, spraying water in all directions every time it is used. This is an inconvenience rather than a disaster: when I say "water" I do mean "water", and it's easy enough to fill a bucket from the bath and avoid using the flush, and the downstairs toilet is fine... But it's not something you'd choose to put up with, let alone inflict on guests, even guests who know you as well as D. and valydiarosada know us. The plumber has agreed to come next Friday, and to replace the dripping tap in the kitchen while he is here, so there's a silver lining, but not yet.

"Not yet" covers the rest of the news, too. The snow has come just as the year was re-starting, and cancelled all our plans for today. Being the first Sunday of the month, it should have been Farmers' Market in Sedgefield: the market was putting out mixed messages about whether they would go ahead (and eventually cancelled, but too late to stop the vegetable farmers turning up) but there was no way we would risk driving down our road. Likewise for S.'s Christmas leftovers party this afternoon: we stayed home, and will eat our own leftovers, such as they are. F. had already cancelled our tentative plans for a Twelfth Night dinner tomorrow: initially we turned her down, hoping to go to the Phantoms ghost story event that evening, but when Phantoms was fixed for a different date (which we could not make, dammit) we reconsidered. Negotiations were complicated by our landline being out of order (durham_rambler had accidentally unplugged it, needing the socket and thinking he was unplugging the printer) - well, whatever we all wanted to do, it's unlikely we'll be able to go out tomorrow.

Habitually, I think of Twelfth Night as the end of Christmas: we celebrate the New Year on the first of January, but really Christmas isn't over until the sixth. So what I think of it so far is that we aren't there yet.

The mystery of the shortbread has been solved: it was dispatched by the two Great-Nephews. They appear to have decided that they are grewn-up enough to send us presents on their own account just at the point where we had decided that they were old enough not to do Christmas presents any more...

There are several more shiny packages in the sitting room, waiting for us to declare that it's present opening time: just now we are savouring the anticipation.

There was a card in the doormat when we got up this morning - posted, nit hand-delivered. Presimably it arrived yesterday, late. Anyway, it's a good one (made by the sender).

durham_rambler declared that he wanted turkey for his Christmas dinner, and that it didn't have to be a whole one. So we bought a turkey crown from M&S, which will provide ample leftovers for two people. Whole we were in M&S, durham_rambler spotted the pigs in blankets, and declared that these, too, would be very acceptable. So all I have to do is the vegetables, which may be why I have the illusion of time on my hands on Christmas morning - though I think there will be the usual challenge of fitting everything into the oven...

Time to peel some parsnips, I think.

Once again, and despite two significant absences, the carol evening worked its magic. Both of the missing were long-term - maybe even founding - participants. One we knew in advance would not be there: he committed himself to a band a while ago, and has since then been even harder to pin down. But he was so appalled to discover that they had a booking for the night of the carol evening that although we muttered serves him right!, it was hard to men it. Anyway, he was much missed... The other had e-mailed to say that he would definitely be with us, but has for some time been finding socialising difficult, and we weren't entirely surprised that he didn't turn up (worried, yes, but not surprised). But there were new people, who fitted in admirably; there was another regular returned after missing a year for medical reasons; and there was someone so physically transformed since last we met that I didn't recognise him (until the singing started, and then he was unmistakeable).

The mulled wine mysteriously required much less honey than last year, but was still very good. Each year we consume less of it: we are getting older, more of us don't drink at all - and then, as boybear pointed out, those absentees are among the most enthusiastic consumers. Memo to self: the original four-bottle batch would probably have been enough. I refreshed it with another bottle at half time, and then worried that I am turning into my mother - but no, she would have insisted on adding the last bottle in the case. There were fewer mince pies than usual: as the person responsible for warming up the mince pies for the half-time break, I was happy not to have to find baking trays for additional contributions. M. had baked the usual supply, and I think they were ample, but certainly there were none left over.

This is all good, but it's all about the carols. We sang our way through our songbooks (compiled long ago, duplicated and illustrated by our absent friend). We seem to have given up arguing about the order of the carols (mostly as in the book, but starting with O Come Emmanuel because it's an Advent carol, and ending with We Wish You A Merry Christmas because we do), and entertained ourselves instead with the confusion of the musicians, whose books are in alphabetical order. We couldn't find the supplementary sheets (which turned up at the end of the evening under one of the music books) but we sang the Sans Day Carol and Shepherds Arise regardless. I would have said that I left Shepherds Arise to the musicians, who have a fine harmony arrangement, because I don't really feel I know it. But I woke up a couple of days later earwormed by it, so I must know it better than I thought. A. and I disagreed about the pace of In Praise of Christmas (I'd like to try it a little faster, she feels that people take it too fast), but agreed that we would like to sing O Come All Ye Faithful in Latin...

Bonus carols: we did not listen to Radio 4's Sunday Service that morning, even though it was about the Sheffield carolling tradition. But I listened to it today, and enjoyed it.

After this, we were ready for a very quiet Monday. It was cold and bright, and we took the bus to East Finchley, to lunch at Egg and Bake. It's a slow bus ride but a scenic one, through Highgate Village, and it was an excellent lunch, with a choice of vegetarian breakfasts (East Finchley has become trendy since durham_rambler and I lived there.

On Tuesday we visited durham_rambler's family in Essex. In complete contrast, the day was grey and dark, and I decided against taking my camera with me: I very rarely photograph people, so it's just a dead weight on family visits. This was a mistake, as durham_rambler's brother suggested a quick visit to a local nature reserve (the Essex Wildlife Trust Thurrock Visitor Centre), on a former landfill site by the Thames, in aptly named Mucking. The café - because we didn't explore beyond the café - is an impressive circular building, with a ramp around the outside so you can walk up to the roof and admire the view: the silver grey wood of the building, the hazy grey of the river, the darker smudge of Kent on the far side, the leaden grey of the sky. At the top was a poster, one of a series of 'Watermarks' artworks. Inside the building, another ramp leads up to the café itself, circling a shop and providing display space for some fun textile hangings by the Kite Spirit textile group (and I wish I could find some better pictures).

And on Wednesday we came home. That drive doesn't get any shorter, but it went smoothly enough, and we had time to eat and to read the last chapter of Swallows and Amazons for the pub quiz - which we won. So it's good to be home, too.

Next weekend we will be in London for the Bears' Carol Evening (and associated visiting).

This falls early this year: a result of how the days of the week accommodate the season. This weekend is very early, but next weekend would be very late. So we will drive to London on Thursday, and I am not ready. I am even more not ready than usual.

durham_rambler is out at a Parish Council event: his second meeting of the day (and another one tomorrow, the one that had to be rescheduled not to clash with this evening's thing). Before he went out he printed out a list of the addresses we sent cards to last year; and I have sorted through the cards we received, and spread them all over the kitchen table. I have wrapped up a present ready to post when we have both signed the accompanying card (can it be possible that I now only post one present? or will there be an awful realisation later?).

No doubt there are all sorts of useful things I could be doing; and no doubt tomorrow I will regret not doing them. Right now, though, I am giving myself a break...

We had a quiet Christmas staying with D.and valydiarosada, being waited on hand and foot, which was delightful; we had a quiet New Year with D.and valydiarosada staying here, where the service is not in the same class, but that was fun too. Around and between both of these, there was a certain amount of smaller scale visiting. The festive season is not over: but our visitors have returned home, and I am beginning to catch up with myself.

In that spirit, I'm not even going to try to report everything that has happened. Instead, the message received in a Christmas card from the fabulous Gail-Nina, who knows what I like. Outside it's an attractive snowy street scene, in a tasteful colour scheme of monochrome enlivened by red highlights and gold stars - yopu have to look very closely to spot a brightly coloured beak poking out from behind a chimney pot. Inside, though, there is a very visible puffin, and the following poem:

The Puffins of Winter are already here
By Christmas they're quite omnipresent.
They'll roost on your buildings or perch in your square
By the light of the moon (full or crescent).
They're frankly enormous, with beaks of bright red,
They're gluttons for sand-worms or fishes;
But they do win our heartts (once they're properly fed)
By conveying the season's Best Wishes.

Though startling these spectres can certainly be
Uncanny & eerie (yet fleeting)
By dawn they'll have safely returned to the sea
Euphoniously trailing their greeting.
So welcome their presence if they should appear
Whether hovering, lurking or looming,
As "Christmas Good Wishes & a Happy New Year"
Echo back from the waves wild & foaming.

One of M.'s contributions to last night's Unity Folk Club was to get all of us, even those who had never heard of Pogo Possum, singing Deck us all with Boston Charlie - excellent stuff, and very silly. More information here, including (if you scroll down far enough) the song sheet as handed round.

I have been wandering through the artwork of Maurice Gouju (aka Goujo and Amalric), of which the internet offers an extensive display. Which isn't exactly what I was looking for...

I had managed to decipher the tiny signature on the back cover of my copy of Georges Simenon's La danseuse du Gai-Moulin and wanted to know more, but I haven't managed to find any information about the artist, beyond his name, and of his cheerful poster designs. And I did eventually find his design for Fayard's issue of Simenon novels. He appears to have provided a single design which could be varied by the use of different colours: mine has a grey typewriter on a bright pink background. The back cover shows a glass, a tobacco pouch and a pen. I wonder whether this, too, was used on different books, but I suspect it was, because it doesn't have any particular application to the plot.

This poster for the National Lottery seemed particularly appropriate, as Christmas comes to an end: three kings bearing a double chance of winning the lottery, to wish you a joyeuse fête des rois. Tonight we will go to Phantoms and the Phil to hear three new ghost stories read by their authors, the event which marks the end of our Christmas.

Quite late in the pre-Christmas period, we learned that S. would be holding her traditional Christmas morning party this year. I say "traditional", but it's a tradition that had lapsed a year or so before lockdown (she spent a couple of Christmases abroad, apart from anything else). It's always a good party, but it's always a struggle to fit a traditional Christmas around that break in the middle of the day; and it's not as if I'd been well ahead in preparations, anyway. No problem: we have no-one to please but ourselves, anyway. We observed Christmas on a one-day delay, and I'm very happy with that solution.

So on Christmas Eve I took the first of the two steps of the process of preparing the Christmas cake; on Christmas morning we drove into Newcastle for S.'s party, which was small but perfectly formed.

And on Christmas afternoon I took to the sofa with a detective story: what could be more seasonal than that? Except that what I picked off the pile turned out to be a very emphatically Hallowe'en story - three murders echo each other over a period of a hundred years, a ghost is reported to walk, and the third death, which leads to the story being unravelled, takes place over Hallowe'en. If you were looking for a seasonal mystery novel to read over Hallowe'en - and you weren't likely to be triggered by the very horrible deaths of three young women - I entirely recommend Martin Edwards' The Frozen Shroud. But 'horrible' is the right word, I think: the resolution plays entirely fair by the rules of the Detection Club (as it should) but the journey there is through the territory of horror.

Yesterday was Christmas Day Plus One. We opened presents and ate roast turkey: I bought a turkey joint from Sainsbury's, which probably wasn't as good as doing it myself but enabled me to do all the vegetables and trimmings to my satisfaction.

And today is Boxing Day Plus One, and a dinner of leftovers is in the oven.

Must get back onto real time. Have a Literary Clock (with thanks to the Guardian for the link).

Whether because of the rigours of the journey, or because of the Big Freeze, or just because we are getting old and lazy, we did not do any touristing in London on this trip. We lazed at home, and talked, and read the paper, and we went out to see friends. And of course there was the carol evening.

( Friday )

( A country mouse on Marsh Wall )

( Sunday breakfast with the family )

( Here we come a-carolling... )

And if the carol evening has happened, it must really be Christmas.

Monday was another quiet day of recovery: we lunched at Down the Rabbit Hole, I started to write this post, there was music from boybear's practice... On Tuesday, durham_rambler and I visited his family in Essex, and overnighted with them, which shortened our homeward journey yesterday.

So we were home in time for the last pub quiz of the year - which our team won with an impressive final round, after a very wobbly progression through the rest of the quiz. Now it's just a matter of catching up with ourselves.

Things are not, in fact, all that bleak. If this cold snap is the work of the Troll from Trondheim, it must be the troll who came in from the cold, the troll who couldn't handle the weather that is routine in Trondheim.

We had heavy frost on Friday: cold enough that I explored the winter clothes bagged up in the drawer under the bed - which have lain undisturbed for the last couple of winters - and I am now wearing the big fleecy sweatshirt which is usually just too warm for comfort.

We woke on Saturday to a blanket of snow; not the thickest of blankets, but quite enough. We had no plans to go anywhere over the weekend, and we didn't. We spent a quiet Sunday afternoon writing Christmas cards - I discovered a stash of cards left over from previous years, and those with the cards we bought at the Christmas Fair last weekend (was it really only last weekend? yes, if you count Friday) will suffice. We used up our supply of second-class stamps, and durham_rambler walked out to take the stamped cards to the postbox.

The forecast threatened that last night would be colder than ever, but it didn't feel it. There was a dusting of snow on the doorstep when I brought the milk in, but cars were moving up and down the hill with no sign of nervousness. durham_rambler drove out to a post office and posted more cards, including all the foreign ones - they will robably arrive late, but never mind.

This evening we are due at the Parish Council's festive event; and on Thursday we set off for London. Weather permitting, but the prospects are good.