venta

Goodness me, is it that time of year already ? I'm home again for Christmas, curled up in the front room with a laptop, a brace of parents, a Christmas tree, a real fire and a cat.

Not out with the choir ? Well, no. This year I thought it was probably time to give it a miss. I'm out of practice (I do no choral singing save here at Christmas and Easter). I've got a cold (*snuffle*). The church choir is no longer short of altos (in fact, this morning's service suggested they were completely stowed out). All in all, much as I love carol singing, I decided that discretion was the better part of valour and came home when the rest of the choir left the pub to go hunting for robes and surplices. We'd already drunk the pub out of Deuchars anyway.

The choir master did generously offer to let me come and sing tenor when I presented my cold as an excuse. Tempting - I was cheerfully singing hymns at tenor pitch in the congregation this morning - but ultimately probably not a very good idea.

I left work to drive north on Friday, when fog was featuring large in the world. Fortunately, I'd planned to stop off with

davefish and

keris on the way home; by the time I'd reached Coventry my eyes had gone all boogly from staring into the fog. I had a thoroughly pleasant evening with them - and the best bit is that to visit their flat you have to drive along the HIGHWAY TO THE FUTURE. I have no idea why it is the HIGHWAY TO THE FUTURE, it looks like a fairly unexciting A road, but I welcome our new Tarmac overlords.

I sped further north on Saturday, landing at home just in time to eat tea before leaping out the door for my annual meet-up with

marjory and

dr_mitch. My Dad chivalrously offered to walk me into town and, being a proper gent, also chivalrously saw me into the pub and chivalrously helped me check that the beer was OK. It was. We likes The Quaker. Pintwatch trotted gleefully round town (Jarrow Brewery's "Rivet Catcher": thoroughly recommended), pausing only to lament the lack of seats and the loudness of speakers in various hostelries. At heart, Pintwatch is about seventy and likes a nice quiet pub with comfy seats.

At the beginning of December, I was interviewed by Radio Oxford as the last remaining person on the planet who puts up decorations on Christmas Eve. "But", asked the presenter, "don't you find Christmas Eve is too rushed and busy for decorating?". No, no, I said, we plan it in, it's always fine. Which it is, except for the years when Christmas Eve has the temerity to fall on a Sunday - trotting along to morning communion service plays merry hell with the tinsel schedule.

By the time you've got home around twelve, had dinner, and got ready to go to the Christingle and crib service at four the day's gone all to pot. Mind you, the crib service did include innovative use of a bubble machine to demonstrate the love of God. It's not often you see a Norman church with bubbles billowing all over its organ pipes and altar.

This afternoon has been a slightly hectic session of throwing cards at walls, holly at pictures and generally putting every last decoration in its right and proper place. Snowflakes on the front door, wooden crib scene on the telephone table (so called because it usually sports a ceramic sphinx; the telephone lives on top of the cupboard), mistletoe bough over the stairs, etc, etc.

After dinner, Dad and I attempted to subdue the Christmas tree. Regular readers will be disappointed to hear that Dad, having not been at work since his heart attack in August, hasn't had access to work's tool-chest and thus didn't have the reciprocating saw at his disposal. I hadn't realised it was only borrowed. The "small" tree the parents bought last week turned out to be around five feet high, and around five feet across; it needed to fit into a three foot alcove. By the time I joined in, Dad had managed to make the tree (when viewed from above) square. After further acts of secateurian violence, we managed to render it triangular. A not-at-all reciprocating saw was employed to cut a chunk off the bottom, and we were ready to go. It's now been decked and baubled, and looks extremely unrealistic on account of not being Christmas-tree-shaped. It smells right, though, and so do all the trimmings which keep accidentally falling on our smokeless-fuel fire.

Since last Christmas, the front room has been redecorated and has had the small, grey-tiled fireplace removed and replaced with a high, dark-wood fireplace. Apparently it's the right style for the era in which the house was built, and it looks terribly diginified. In its honour, a new tinsel-garlandy thing in dark greens with red baubles has been bought, and is currently curling its way across the top and around the silver candlesticks at each end. The dark-wood cats which usually leap nonchalantly along its mantelpiece are looking slightly askance at the Christmas cards invading their space.

I have wrapped the presents I need to wrap. I have retrieved the slow-cooker (in fetching 70s beige and brown) from its lofty kitchen hideout, and put it out ready for the Christmas pud tomorrow. Mum (mostly) and me (slightly, when I got back from the pub) have made stuffing, linked sausages and wrapped pigs in blankets. I've located the string bag I leave out for Father Christmas.

...And it's not even midnight yet. Where's my pint gone ? Cheers!