venta

As has been mentioned before, I am a creature of Christmas habit and my 2002 and 2003 write-ups will pretty much serve for any year.

I had a reasonably good journey north on Friday (though if someone wants to tell me why they had the aircon set so cold in Tibshelf services I'd love to know - I gave up and sat in the car instead) and arrived in time to have a late night cup of tea with my parents.

Christmas Eve saw me trotting down the village to acquire the batteries (not included) for one of my dad's presents. I walked in the top way, down as far as the library and back past the police station; the bounds were beaten, and I'm satisfied that my domain is still there. So many of the shops have changed that I can't keep up; a few old favourites are as I remember them from my walk to school, and the rest wash past me in a sea of altered fascias and unfamiliar window displays. I got home and was promptly dispatched again to fetch medicine required by one the elderly ladies Mum runs errands for, and was just returning home when a phone call turned me round. The uncle, passing through our house to cadge a cup of coffee on the way home from his own shopping, had discovered a newspaper sized gap in his bag. I eventually managed to get home and stay there just about in time for lunch. Cullen skink, of course.

During my brief touchdown mid-morning, my parents had been making noises about decorating the Christmas tree. The noises were mainly "bzzz" since decorating seems, according to my dad, to require the use of a reciprocating saw. The annual debate "This house would like a nicely co-ordinated, stylish tree instead of a conglomerated vulgarity decorated with every bauble we've ever owned" was pursued and defeated (as it annually is) two-to-one. It's a strangely bushy tree, actually, and managed to eat a surprising number of decorations before it looked finished.

On Friday night, I received an sms saying "choir practice at half seven". Since I was on the M40 at the time (and one of the things Darlington is notable for is being absolutely nowhere near the M40), that was a non-starter. So I just turned up on Christmas Eve in time for the fight as all the irregulars like me scrum down for the remaining sets of choir robes. Pintwatch and my inner chorister agreed on a compromise plan for the evening, alternating pints of Deuchars with singing familiar carols and sightreading unfamiliar anthems.

Being fortunately without grandparents, in-laws or other such things that need visiting on Christmas day, we pretty much eat turkey and then pull up the drawbridge. Being well-fed, in possession of a purring fire[*] and with new toys and books to play with we lazed the day away. A little fast movement was necessary on occasion to avoid being labelled - Dad having acquired a newer version of the old clicky-Dymo machine meant that small, printed tags were affixed to things that didn't get away fast enough. I am still sporadically checking for stickers reading "CAT" entangled in the fur of the resident feline.

Today we have graciously allowed a few carfeully selected visitors over our threshhold. However, they have now gone and, since it's darkening in, I'm thinking it's about time to operate those drawbridge chains again and get the boiling oil on. I'm expecting a phonecall from an old schoolfriend and, if she's about tonight, I may deign to leave the building. Maybe. Then again, these logs won't throw themselves on the fire, will they ?

[*] It's like a roaring fire, but a little quieter. Our fireplace is too small to facilitate proper roaring, and indeed the front room isn't really large enough to merit it. A couple of good roars and we'd all be overheating.