venta

This morning I got on a Virgin train; it left Oxford on time. It spat me out again in Darlington on time. It - get this - waited in Doncaster for a few minutes because it had arrived there early. Clear evidence that I had entered a parallel universe.

I arrived home, and began on the whirl that is Christmas Eve. As I said in my hundred things, Christmas Eve is my favourite day of the year, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Partly it's anticipation, but mostly it's just the day itself.

So, I arrived home in time for Cullen Skink for dinner, and then got on with decorating. We don't decorate the house till Christmas Eve - it's all very traditional.

Getting the tree in to the house is still something of a major undertaking - my Mum is afflicted with a bad neck; so am I at the moment. My Dad is allergic to Christmas trees (I ask you!). Still, gloved to the shoulder he manhandled last year's tree, still happily growing in its pot, into the house. Of course, last year it stood on my old toy box, and just brushed the ceiling. This year it's standing on the rather lower slimline computer desk which has replaced the toybox, and looks a bit small.

Occasionally, my Mum casts wistful glances at stylish, monochrome trees. A live tree, with only white lights, and one colour of baubles, she suggests. However, she knows when she's beaten :)

Our tree, though small, is a riot. It has coloured lights, and its baubles have been amassed over nearly 60 years. First on are the glass baubles, the first to come back on the market after WWII, taken from their packaging, in old cake frills, inside a wooden box which advertises "Rowntree's Cream Chocolate Tablettes", circa 1930, at least. They go near the centre of the tree, so as not to be harmed by wilting branches, and marauding cats.

Following them on are the more modern ones (from a box which appears to be a 1970s effort which once contained "Stork Table Margarine"(?)). Baubles which were bought when I was little, things which we made years ago, things which just kind of turned up. There are strange bakelite tree ornaments which came from my Nana's house, there are Save The Children charity baubles which boldly say 1989 on their shiny sides. Each one has stories or memories attached - there's the odd, banjo-playing snowman who always turns to face the wall, no matter how you put him on the tree. This year I was caught muttering about Eris as we hung up a golden apple, and forced to explain at tinsel-point.

Every decoration in our house has a place. Sometimes we buy new stuff, or throw out old, but each thing has a declared place. Recently, my mum bought a new set of wooden crib figures to replace the plaster-of-paris set, made and painted by a friend's son years ago. They now sit on the cupboard in the front room, kings aproaching from the East across the bureau, just where the old ones used to. Sure, we could move stuff round, but I don't think any of us wants to.

We have a mistletoe bough - something which seems to have dropped more or less out of sight. It's a pair of hoops, tied together to make an approximate sphere, decorated with various things. No mistletoe, because it's hard to find, sadly, but the principle's there.

All this decorating gets done to a background of the carol service from King's College, Cambridge, until we head out to the service for the Blessing of the Crib at our own church. Which I enjoyed immoderately this year, simply because they didn't make me sing Little Donkey. If ever a carol was capable of making me forget all Christmas spirit, and become instantly homicidal, it's that one..

Sadly, my neck is still sufficiently bad that I couldn't face the long periods of standing up (not to mention wearing the bastard heavy robes) required for joining the choir for midnight service this evening. It must be a few years now since I've missed midnight service - I'll go to early morning communion with my parents tomorrow, but I'll miss what I consider the official start of Christmas.

For some years now, I've had a very clear idea of exactly when Christmas starts. At midnight communion in our church (and probably others all over the country) the final hymn is O Come, All Ye Faithful. This is after the sermon, after the communion, after midnight.

When singing, there is the sixth verse, which begins "Sing, choirs of angels, sing in exultation" and has a glorious descant. (If you've ever been in a church choir, yes, we use the Wilcox & Rutter books, too). That comes to an end, then all the organ stops come out, the choir switches to singing in unison, and you get the crashing glory of the seventh verse, which is only ever sung on Christmas Day.

"Yea, Lord we greet thee,
Born this happy morning..."

And that's when Christmas starts..

Still, I did manage to join some of the choir this evening, for the pre-Christmas ceremony.

The church choir has its own traditions, and some are very important. Each year, before Christmas midnight communion, a very important ritual is acted out.

Of course, to the uninitiated, this looks very much like 'going down the pub for a few pints before the service'. It was good to catch up with old friends, many of whom I only now see at Christmas and Easter.

There's a shameful lack of gossip among the choir this year. Most disturbing, though, was the fact that Dan has bought a house. Now, Dan is a few years younger than me... I clearly remember him singing the treble solo for the first verse of Once in Royal David's City. I remember his girlfriend joining the choir, aged 10, as a girl soprano. I don't care if he's now a tenor, and she's an adult soprano half-way through a law course, they should not be allowed to begin conversations with "when I was fixing the central heating the other day...". It makes me feel old.

I wish I were singing with them now. Still, it would have been painful. And, given the sore throat I've had for a week, and the 'orrible noises I was making at the Crib Service this afternoon, any self-respecting choir would have evicted me post-haste..

So, the electric fire from the front room is banished upstairs, and we have a coal and apple log fire. The wreath, hastily made by me from pittisporum, wire and ribbon this afternoon, is hanging on the gate. Presents are wrapped, mysterious smells from the kitchen earlier suggest that my mum has all that turkey and stuffing business under control.

It's nearly Christmas, now.