Cum cantibus in choro
Dec. 24th, 2008 10:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ventaWell, you can all stop panicking. We didn't have to cancel Christmas.
It was decided that that box must have been accidentally left out of the crates last year, and been put somewhere "safe". You may be aware of the perils of putting something somewhere "safe". The Back Bedroom was my location of choice, but searching failed to turn up that box. Eventually the mother, in a fit of inspiration (or possibly using what my friend Cathy refers to as "wife radar"), checked the surface of my Dad's desk. That box was located in the 'in' tray on the desk, buried under 11 1/2 months of silted-up urgent to-dos. The Christmas cards, with the highly-trained Yuletide drawing pins and candy-striped red and green string and the SBEDs, are now safely distributed around the walls of the hall, stairs and dining room. All is well.
Careful observers may be interested to note that the box had a flippy lid, and was gold. In my defence, one corner of the box was a bit darkish. Almost black, in some lights.
This afternoon, we wandered down to church to go to the Crib Service. And were greeted by some slightly alarming news: "We can't," whispered Mrs Foster, "find the crib". Since the central theme of the child-friendly Christmas Eve service is the building of a nativity scene, complete with Mary, Joseph, indistringuishable offspring, shepherds and miscellaenous farm animals, having lost the damn thing was rather serious.
Mrs Foster is the doyenne of the family church; she looks to be in her 70s. When I was born, she looked to be in her 70s. If you check parish records, she's been in her 70s for around four hundred years. The wise parishioner does not enquire. She arranges flowers, puts the correct numbers on the board for the hymns (except when outwitted by the choirmaster), bakes cakes appropriate for any occasion, gives out hymnbooks and generally keeps the vicar in order. If she says the crib is missing, it's missing.
Fortunately, close enquiry revealed that Mary, Joseph, plus supporting agricultural labourers, bovines and mangers had all been located. What was missing was the wood-framed stable they all hang out in. The service went ahead without it.
However this does explain why, shortly after it ended and children departed clutching strange orange-and-candle creations, Dad and I were rummaging around in a cupboard and transporting a surprisingly heavy stable across a cobbled churchyard on a rather rickety trolley. This is not a quiet occupation. We set the stable up, which required shoving the altar several feet forwards to act as a prop. We also hid the wires, as the electronic components of the divine glow were still AWOL.
In the meantime, the mother had noticed that the lovely red carpet up the central aisle was strewn with stable straw. The midnight service (which, due to the pernicious complexity of the C of E, starts at half past eleven this evening) draws large crowds; it would never do if they found the church scruffy. Accordingly, she'd whipped a Dyson out of a hidden cupboard and was judiciously hoovering[*] the central aisle of a slightly embarassed-looking historic church. While she finished, I dug the blu-tac left from some props used in the kids' service out of grooves in the Norman stonework.
Just an average trip to church, really.
[*] Yes, you hoover with a Dyson. Live with it.
Now, having joined the church choir in the pub until they departed to serenade the Christmas diners in the local hotel, I'm home and warm in front of a proper fire. The tree is copiously over-decked with garish baubles, the presents are piled up for the morning, and the cat is regarding us with thinly-veiled contempt.
Happy Christmas, all.
It was decided that that box must have been accidentally left out of the crates last year, and been put somewhere "safe". You may be aware of the perils of putting something somewhere "safe". The Back Bedroom was my location of choice, but searching failed to turn up that box. Eventually the mother, in a fit of inspiration (or possibly using what my friend Cathy refers to as "wife radar"), checked the surface of my Dad's desk. That box was located in the 'in' tray on the desk, buried under 11 1/2 months of silted-up urgent to-dos. The Christmas cards, with the highly-trained Yuletide drawing pins and candy-striped red and green string and the SBEDs, are now safely distributed around the walls of the hall, stairs and dining room. All is well.
Careful observers may be interested to note that the box had a flippy lid, and was gold. In my defence, one corner of the box was a bit darkish. Almost black, in some lights.
This afternoon, we wandered down to church to go to the Crib Service. And were greeted by some slightly alarming news: "We can't," whispered Mrs Foster, "find the crib". Since the central theme of the child-friendly Christmas Eve service is the building of a nativity scene, complete with Mary, Joseph, indistringuishable offspring, shepherds and miscellaenous farm animals, having lost the damn thing was rather serious.
Mrs Foster is the doyenne of the family church; she looks to be in her 70s. When I was born, she looked to be in her 70s. If you check parish records, she's been in her 70s for around four hundred years. The wise parishioner does not enquire. She arranges flowers, puts the correct numbers on the board for the hymns (except when outwitted by the choirmaster), bakes cakes appropriate for any occasion, gives out hymnbooks and generally keeps the vicar in order. If she says the crib is missing, it's missing.
Fortunately, close enquiry revealed that Mary, Joseph, plus supporting agricultural labourers, bovines and mangers had all been located. What was missing was the wood-framed stable they all hang out in. The service went ahead without it.
However this does explain why, shortly after it ended and children departed clutching strange orange-and-candle creations, Dad and I were rummaging around in a cupboard and transporting a surprisingly heavy stable across a cobbled churchyard on a rather rickety trolley. This is not a quiet occupation. We set the stable up, which required shoving the altar several feet forwards to act as a prop. We also hid the wires, as the electronic components of the divine glow were still AWOL.
In the meantime, the mother had noticed that the lovely red carpet up the central aisle was strewn with stable straw. The midnight service (which, due to the pernicious complexity of the C of E, starts at half past eleven this evening) draws large crowds; it would never do if they found the church scruffy. Accordingly, she'd whipped a Dyson out of a hidden cupboard and was judiciously hoovering[*] the central aisle of a slightly embarassed-looking historic church. While she finished, I dug the blu-tac left from some props used in the kids' service out of grooves in the Norman stonework.
Just an average trip to church, really.
[*] Yes, you hoover with a Dyson. Live with it.
Now, having joined the church choir in the pub until they departed to serenade the Christmas diners in the local hotel, I'm home and warm in front of a proper fire. The tree is copiously over-decked with garish baubles, the presents are piled up for the morning, and the cat is regarding us with thinly-veiled contempt.
Happy Christmas, all.
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no subject
Date: 2008-12-24 11:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-25 01:04 am (UTC)Hope you have a lovely festive day thing. (and stuff)
no subject
Date: 2008-12-27 12:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-27 01:53 pm (UTC)