Christmas 2012

I really wasn't this blurry - hardly drank at all honest!

I really must get a better camera or take more time with the photos I go for. This was a disappointing crop.

Well, that’s another one ticked off. Quite successfully too. The fourteen disparate personalities gelled happily on Christmas day and the cooking team (chiefly me and granddad) worked like house elves to provide the feast all hot and at the right moment. Bad cracker jokes, silly hats, nice wines for each course and (though I say it myself) an excellent pudding. Spillage on carpet, a few tears from over-tired sprogs, much good will amongst adults and parting kisses from me which unfortunately spread the cold I didn’t       know I had coming on. 

 So that’s the main traditions observed. I felt a bit sorry for B who is used to going to church in the morning, singing along with carols from Kings College whilst cooking the lunch, then watching the Queen’s speech in the afternoon. None of which we have done for longer than I can remember. 

The weather was so brilliant Boxing Day some of us had a walk around the bay in the sunshine, saying hello to scores of smiley strangers also happy to be taking the air in the knowledge that the shops where closed. (I suppose there were sales somewhere but we don’t talk about that.) The snow-capped peaks of mountains in the background reminded us that the son and biggest grandson were ski-ing in the Cairngorms where the conditions were excellent (which doesn’t happen so often in Scotland; the day after that there were gales  and the runs were closed.) Sanders was able to try his new ski boots, one of which was really comfortable and the other would have been if he had realised what was hurting and removed the headphones from the toe. He’s good at driving through the pain barrier that lad.

The smaller boys got Furbies from their aunt and me. These creatures are just as amusing for adults as children. On Christmas Eve when the parents woke them into life I began to wonder if their sons would get given them at all. These beasties learn English gradually, which is a pity as I suspect some of their vocabulary is going to be a bit rude. They also talk to each other; this made bedtime for their new owners quite difficult. It was a happy change to hear the 6 year old and the 4 year old human child complaining because their pets were talking and keeping them awake. That’s karma boys.

The Cornish wreckers left yesterday and got back safely 12 hours later, leaving me to my own bed (hooray) and a house that looks superficially back to normal. Interesting anomalies that have turned up so far: an apple in the airing cupboard (partially eaten,) a light sabre in a potted plant; lego in the fridge; chocolate Santas down the back of chairs; some really juicy smears on the French windows and the mirrored cupboard doors in the bedrooms; a few undergarments that might be missed.

So, not quite back to normal. I just took a long and refreshing bath, followed by a shower to get every possible centimetre of me wet, only to reach for a towel and remember they were all  being washed. It isn't the same drying on a cotton nightie.

Well, that's it! My last day behind the counter. I waited in vain for the engraved watch and bottle of bubbly and my retirement speech wasn't needed but it still felt like an Occasion. I've sat in that small space for many MANY hours over the last 8 years.

Perhaps in six months time I shall miss the craich but for the moment  I'm relishing my freedom. The next couple of weeks are going to be full of activity so I'll be eased gently into empty days that I have to fill with my own ingenuity/ creativity. There are so many nice things one can do around here but my aim is to use the time to write, not fill it up with writer's groups, art lessons and Toastmasters (although it's tempting because they are a jolly bunch.... I went to their Christmas Dinner where we played 'Call My Bluff'  and my mate J, somewhat in her cups, gave us a rendering of 'Right Said Fred' in a thick Lancashire accent.)

 We shall see.

I thought I liked the poetry of Yeats but when I looked through my grand Folio Society ‘complete works of’ I couldn’t find anything that sparked for me today. Probably tomorrow things will be different. What I did read, in his ‘General Introduction,’ was the following:

“A poet writes always of his personal life, in his finest work out of its tragedy, whatever it be, remorse, lost love or mere loneliness; he never speaks directly as to someone at the breakfast table, there is always a phantasmagoria. Even when the poet seems most himself he has been reborn as an idea, something intended, complete.” 

 later: “.....we adore him because nature has grown intelligible, and by doing so a part of our creative power.”  

Also: “We know everything because we are everything.”

It’s thoughts like these that make me adore Yeats!

I’ve also been re-reading Lessing’s ‘The Four-Gated City’ looking for something different to the last read-through, the generated thoughts rather than the story-line. There’s a moment when Martha Quest, watching the young teenage son of her employer, realises he is in that brief flash of beauty that boys pass through somewhere in adolescence, the moment before they become solid, crystalised, set into their moulds. The moment when choir boys look like angels and rather take ones breath away.Young girls see Francis simply as a handsome boy; ‘To see the rest one had to be a conspirant with time. That’s what age brings, new insights, new perspectives.’

A few not-very-clear photos of photos of Nicholas Roerich's paintings. Not clear enough and not intense enough but I wanted to show Gillian. I would love to see the originals. Along with Chagall and Franz Marc he is a favourite of mine. I do like colour, especially blue, and they all use it so well.