This week I have been re-telling the deepest, truest, loveliest story of all. The vicar and I told it to forty-seven unbelievably attentive toddlers at our toddler group Christmas Party on Thursday. Today, I told it again to the after school club. They'd just come out of the last day of school before Christmas and were hopping with excitement, but they, too, took in the story of the mother, the manger, the star, the angel. When I asked them what Jesus came to bring, there were shouts of 'love!' from a lot of loud and eager little people.
After that we all ate Very Bad For You Party Food, but they even did that nicely. Then the sugar kicked in, and we had to scrape them off the ceiling.
Meanwhile, the decorations are still on the floor, the tree is outside, less than half the presents are wrapped, and a heap of holly lies in wait for the unwary. We are helping with the annual Toy Appeal, so until yesterday the hall was full of spacehoppers.
I am supposed to be an author. Sometimes I think that's an illusion and I am really a Christmas Robot.
Friday, 16 December 2011
Wednesday, 14 December 2011
Deck the Halls
Christmas takes careful timing. Decorating too early is all wrong, but you don't want to be flying up stepladders at the last minute, either. Now is about the right time to start, or at least to haul the boxes out of their hiding places and sort out what we've got. Some of the garlandy stuff is a bit past it.
The holly will have to wait until Friday. Gathering holly is one of those things which is my job, not because Tony would be unwilling, but because he's extremely busy at this time of year, and besides, he wouldn't get it right. (The kids are different. I trained them in holly hunting. But none of them are at home just now.) You know how it is. It's not just a case of clipping holly, it's getting the right sort of holly, in the right quantities. It's a skill, made a lot easier because holly grows at the bottom of the garden. (Except it isn't so much a garden as a swamp today. Even the ducks wear wellies.)
Lovely Younger son was fascinated by the whole Christmas decorating thing when he was nearly two, and followed me around the house while I wobbled on ladders and whacked tacks into hidden corners of windowsills. "Mummy bang bang with a hammer!" he said. ALL DAY.
We've never let him forget it.
The holly will have to wait until Friday. Gathering holly is one of those things which is my job, not because Tony would be unwilling, but because he's extremely busy at this time of year, and besides, he wouldn't get it right. (The kids are different. I trained them in holly hunting. But none of them are at home just now.) You know how it is. It's not just a case of clipping holly, it's getting the right sort of holly, in the right quantities. It's a skill, made a lot easier because holly grows at the bottom of the garden. (Except it isn't so much a garden as a swamp today. Even the ducks wear wellies.)
Lovely Younger son was fascinated by the whole Christmas decorating thing when he was nearly two, and followed me around the house while I wobbled on ladders and whacked tacks into hidden corners of windowsills. "Mummy bang bang with a hammer!" he said. ALL DAY.
We've never let him forget it.
Sunday, 11 December 2011
Sophie Jane
Even a cat has only nine lives, and my sister's cat Sophie has finally used up all of hers. According to my sister, Sophie went through most of them in the first six months, but she still survived to be nineteen.
Even at a great age she was capable of climbing on to the roof, falling off (nobody would have known if she hadn't fallen past the window), righting herself, and strolling into the house as if nothing had happened. Trying to knit anywhere near her was not on, unless you wanted chewed wool and a tangled cat. Quite recently, though she was growing thinner and her coat was beginning to look rough, she'd still go out for a spot of mousing.
For the last few weeks, she's mostly been sleeping by the fire, and her health was slowly failing. Now long winter for Sophie Jane this year. She died very peacefully and painlessly in her mummy's arms. It will be strange to go to the house and not see her there. She has been such a reliable little figure for so long.
Darling girl, there will be one corner of Northumberland that is forever Sophie's.
Even at a great age she was capable of climbing on to the roof, falling off (nobody would have known if she hadn't fallen past the window), righting herself, and strolling into the house as if nothing had happened. Trying to knit anywhere near her was not on, unless you wanted chewed wool and a tangled cat. Quite recently, though she was growing thinner and her coat was beginning to look rough, she'd still go out for a spot of mousing.
For the last few weeks, she's mostly been sleeping by the fire, and her health was slowly failing. Now long winter for Sophie Jane this year. She died very peacefully and painlessly in her mummy's arms. It will be strange to go to the house and not see her there. She has been such a reliable little figure for so long.
Darling girl, there will be one corner of Northumberland that is forever Sophie's.
Friday, 9 December 2011
All Hail!
The Christmas tree in the village square is still standing. This is a minor miracle, as last night it was rocking like a ship in a gale and I expected to find it blocking the road or halfway down the river by morning. A bit of somebody's garden fence swept along on the river and landed just beyond the bottom of the garden. Sleet covered the car. Between the rain and sleet this afternoon, we had the mother and father of a hailstorm.
Mercifully there have been no fatalities, not even any serious injuries, but high winds and slippery roads have caused accidents over two counties - and that's just in the north of England. Scotland has been hammered.
(By the way, Scotland is now home to the 'MacPandas', two giant pandas given to the Scots by the Chinese in the hope that they will fall in love and have baby pandas. Um? I know Scotland is more romantic than China, but forty-eight hours of gale force winds and winter storms can't be good for anyone's love life.)
Back to the village. I was talking a few hours ago to one of our primary school teachers. This afternoon they had arranged for the children's choir to sing carols at a retirement home. It's only about ten minutes walk from school, but what a walk. I asked her if they were out during THAT hailstorm.
'We were out in EVERYTHING,' she said.
They breed 'em tough in Yorkshire.
Oh, just so you know - Helen Archer says she can't bear to meet Richard. Pat Archer (Helen's mum) can't bear not to meet Richard. Sharon (Richard's mum, the former Ambridge bad girl) isn't letting anyone meet Richard, and Elizabeth doesn't want to meet David. All systems normal, then.
Mercifully there have been no fatalities, not even any serious injuries, but high winds and slippery roads have caused accidents over two counties - and that's just in the north of England. Scotland has been hammered.
(By the way, Scotland is now home to the 'MacPandas', two giant pandas given to the Scots by the Chinese in the hope that they will fall in love and have baby pandas. Um? I know Scotland is more romantic than China, but forty-eight hours of gale force winds and winter storms can't be good for anyone's love life.)
Back to the village. I was talking a few hours ago to one of our primary school teachers. This afternoon they had arranged for the children's choir to sing carols at a retirement home. It's only about ten minutes walk from school, but what a walk. I asked her if they were out during THAT hailstorm.
'We were out in EVERYTHING,' she said.
They breed 'em tough in Yorkshire.
Oh, just so you know - Helen Archer says she can't bear to meet Richard. Pat Archer (Helen's mum) can't bear not to meet Richard. Sharon (Richard's mum, the former Ambridge bad girl) isn't letting anyone meet Richard, and Elizabeth doesn't want to meet David. All systems normal, then.
Tuesday, 6 December 2011
Is it a bear? Is it a pony?
No, it's a dog.
The local news programme has just run one of those stories that puts a big smile on your face.
In the very beautiful Dalby Forest in North Yorkshire, Christmas trees are for sale. They are cut down, stacked, and delivered to the car park by the nicest team of lads and lasses you could hope to meet. They are Newfoundland dogs, each weighing anywhere from eight to thirteen stone, and looking, as I said, like a cross between a bear and a pony. They are powerful, pleasant chaps who make good working dogs and are quite happy to draw a cart. In this case, it is a little wicker cart with a Christmas tree in it. Honestly, they look like something out of a fairytale.
'I want one!' I shouted, before the lady on TV said that as well as having lovely natures, they dribble all the time, moult everywhere, and smell terrible when wet. And if you have a Newfoundland on the end of a lead, believe me, you're not the one who decides whether to go left, right, or into the river. As they love water, guess which it's likely to be. But you'd never be lonely with a Newfoundland. (You'd never be dry with a Newfoundland.) Ooh. Where have they been all my life?
The ducks are back, and hungry. The bird feeders go up tomorrow. Tony thinks I'm running a canteen.
The local news programme has just run one of those stories that puts a big smile on your face.
In the very beautiful Dalby Forest in North Yorkshire, Christmas trees are for sale. They are cut down, stacked, and delivered to the car park by the nicest team of lads and lasses you could hope to meet. They are Newfoundland dogs, each weighing anywhere from eight to thirteen stone, and looking, as I said, like a cross between a bear and a pony. They are powerful, pleasant chaps who make good working dogs and are quite happy to draw a cart. In this case, it is a little wicker cart with a Christmas tree in it. Honestly, they look like something out of a fairytale.
'I want one!' I shouted, before the lady on TV said that as well as having lovely natures, they dribble all the time, moult everywhere, and smell terrible when wet. And if you have a Newfoundland on the end of a lead, believe me, you're not the one who decides whether to go left, right, or into the river. As they love water, guess which it's likely to be. But you'd never be lonely with a Newfoundland. (You'd never be dry with a Newfoundland.) Ooh. Where have they been all my life?
The ducks are back, and hungry. The bird feeders go up tomorrow. Tony thinks I'm running a canteen.
Sunday, 4 December 2011
Sheep and Sweater
Sheep in a Sweater! Sheep in a Sweater!
That's what was in my Advent Calendar today, so thank you, LOS and Lady Sunshine. (By the way, I realise that in my previous Advent Calendar post I put LYS instead of LOS. As faithful readers know, it's Lovely Older Son who is married to Lady Sunshine, and Lovely Younger Son who is with The Lassie. Woohoo, the Lassie's coming over tomorrow. WE MUST HAVE CAKE!)
To get back to the point - Tony and I were playing a game recently making up pub names. The Sheep and Sweater sounds pretty good to me.
For those across the Pond, British pubs are often called after royalty or local dignitaries - The Devonshire Arms, the Queen's Arms, The King's Head, etc. Then there are the traditional names, The Dog and Duck, The Pig and Whistle, The White Swan, the Black Bull. Occasionally you get something more original like The Dog and Ferret, or the Goat and Nightgown.
So there we were, making up silly but plausible pub names. The Pint and Poodle, the Ferret and Catapult, The Elephant and Mango. The Wilted Spinach. The Duke of Oxford's Elbow. The Weasel and Trombone. The Fallen Arches.
My favourite up to now? The Ruptured Hernia.
Your turn.
That's what was in my Advent Calendar today, so thank you, LOS and Lady Sunshine. (By the way, I realise that in my previous Advent Calendar post I put LYS instead of LOS. As faithful readers know, it's Lovely Older Son who is married to Lady Sunshine, and Lovely Younger Son who is with The Lassie. Woohoo, the Lassie's coming over tomorrow. WE MUST HAVE CAKE!)
To get back to the point - Tony and I were playing a game recently making up pub names. The Sheep and Sweater sounds pretty good to me.
For those across the Pond, British pubs are often called after royalty or local dignitaries - The Devonshire Arms, the Queen's Arms, The King's Head, etc. Then there are the traditional names, The Dog and Duck, The Pig and Whistle, The White Swan, the Black Bull. Occasionally you get something more original like The Dog and Ferret, or the Goat and Nightgown.
So there we were, making up silly but plausible pub names. The Pint and Poodle, the Ferret and Catapult, The Elephant and Mango. The Wilted Spinach. The Duke of Oxford's Elbow. The Weasel and Trombone. The Fallen Arches.
My favourite up to now? The Ruptured Hernia.
Your turn.
Friday, 2 December 2011
clockwork mouse! clockwork mouse!
Clockwork mouse! is what I put in a text to LYS yesterday. He texted me back,
'Pardon?'
so I explained.
As you may know, I love Advent Calendars, the old-fashioned kind with truly beautiful designs and a picture, not a toy, not a chocolate, just a picture behind every window. No garish Santas, no supersized grinning snowmen, but detailed scenes of villages, churches, children around trees, and, best of all, magic forests.
I give lots of people advent calendars, and on Monday I took one to LYS and Lady Sunshine. Much to my delight, they'd bought one for me. Now, I always treat myself to a calendar, or re-use a favourite one from another year, but there was something so exciting about being given one. It's a very simple and pretty house decorated for Christmas with a little dog outside pulling a sledge, and a snowman, and a decorated kennel. When I opened the first window yesterday and saw the clockwork mouse I was five years old again.
He texted me back - 'Christmas tree.' Today I have to tell him 'stocking'. I'm so enjoying this.
As I type this, The Archers is on the radio in the background. Clarrie is selling holly and mistletoe in the market, David Archer is disappointed because his prize Herefordshire didn't win the Fatstock Show, and Pat Archer is all of a doodah because she's just discovered there's a grandchild she didn't know about. (But is it really John's son?) I have to say I have been waiting for this storyline since John Archer died young after an unfortunate argument with a tractor.
'Pardon?'
so I explained.
As you may know, I love Advent Calendars, the old-fashioned kind with truly beautiful designs and a picture, not a toy, not a chocolate, just a picture behind every window. No garish Santas, no supersized grinning snowmen, but detailed scenes of villages, churches, children around trees, and, best of all, magic forests.
I give lots of people advent calendars, and on Monday I took one to LYS and Lady Sunshine. Much to my delight, they'd bought one for me. Now, I always treat myself to a calendar, or re-use a favourite one from another year, but there was something so exciting about being given one. It's a very simple and pretty house decorated for Christmas with a little dog outside pulling a sledge, and a snowman, and a decorated kennel. When I opened the first window yesterday and saw the clockwork mouse I was five years old again.
He texted me back - 'Christmas tree.' Today I have to tell him 'stocking'. I'm so enjoying this.
As I type this, The Archers is on the radio in the background. Clarrie is selling holly and mistletoe in the market, David Archer is disappointed because his prize Herefordshire didn't win the Fatstock Show, and Pat Archer is all of a doodah because she's just discovered there's a grandchild she didn't know about. (But is it really John's son?) I have to say I have been waiting for this storyline since John Archer died young after an unfortunate argument with a tractor.
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