Back to earth with a thump

So that was Christmas. In this house, at least, it's over for another year, and I can't say that it ended any too successfully. You don't need the details - they are too tedious - suffice to say, there was an incident relating to a bowl of tomato salsa, a cream sofa, an enthusiastically slammed door, and some frayed nerves. I think that all was resolved in the end, but it did rather take the sheen off the Christmas Cheer. If you ask me, the Little Baby Jesus has a lot to answer for.

And to top it off, I seem to have caught one of those snotty, snoring, wheezing, hacking kind of really sexy colds. Beautiful.

So all in all, when The Parents left this morning, I was feeling rather flat, and more than a little sorry for myself.

After an hour of self indulgent sulking and moping, I did what I do when I want to shake the mean reds, and I started walking. All did not start well, for I am still encountering teething problems with the sodding iPhone (am I the only person who thinks they aren't all that ...?) and couldn't get it to more than whisper music at me, so instead of setting my journey to the soundtrack of whatever the Shuffle threw at me, it was set to the thoughts running through my head. My journey went something like this ...

1) Bugger. Turned right instead of left. Oh well, I'll go 'round the block and look like I always meant to go this way.

2) Is that lady (could she really be drunk at this time? Well I suppose it is Christmas) going to veer left or right when I try and walk past her? I'll go left. Oh, dear! So will she! Squeeeeeze!

3) Do squirrels hibernate?

4) What IS that child wearing? And is it a boy or a girl? A girl. It's got long hair. Or maybe it's a boy with long hair. But what IS it wearing?

5) I wonder what will happen next Christmas. Will I have them come to me or will I go to them or will I do neither? Option (c) has a certain appeal. Perhaps a wee cottage somewhere remote with an open fire, a radio, no telly, and loads of books.

6) These houses are nice. I like the colour of that front door. Ooh, look at that nice Christmas tree. And I wonder where they got those blinds. They'd be nice in my house. Oops! Homeowner staring at me! Keeping walking!

7) Shall I go to The Nightingale for lunch? They do the lovely smoked haddock. But then it can be a bit brat infested. Perhaps I'll keep walking. Or shall I? Oh for goodness sake! Make up your mind and stop dithering on the pavement! Keep walking? Good decision. Now stop wondering about the smoked haddock.

8) Oh, these houses are nice too. I wonder if I'll ever live in a place like this? I wonder what I'll live in next. I wonder how long I'll live in my house. I wonder if I'll buy my next place alone or with someone. I wonder how long that will be. I wonder where it will be. I wonder if I will still live in London, or will I move out.

9) Good Lord! Is this year's "Must Have" accessory a three wheeler buggy? Everyone's got one! And did that mother really just say, "Please don't let him dribble on his tank top darling. It's Hilfiger"?

10) I know where I'll go. I'll go to Brew and have eggs Benedict. That'll hit the spot.

11) Oh sod. All the shops are shut. Bloody bank holidays! Wait! Cath Kidston is open. Perhaps they'll have something floral that I can't live without. I'll look after lunch.

12) No, not takeaway, eat in please. Yes a table would be nice. No, I'm not waiting for anyone. Yes, a table for one. One, yes. No, I'm really not waiting for anyone. (**Thinks to self: If you make me feel any more like a loner, you'll not get a tip, dear**). Yes, it is just me today. (**Thinks to self: There it goes!**)

13) That was nice. Now, a quick nip to Waitrose and then I think the bus home.

14) First I'll pop back and get a flowery laptop bag I think.

15) Oh look! There's the bus! Run, run, run, run, runnnnnnnn! Gottit!

16) Bugger. Didn't go to Waitrose.

17) Gosh, but I'm tired! Home, cup of tea, quick (!) blog post, and something easy for dinner I think. Something, of course, involving turkey (groan).

A timeline

7:30am - TS stirs. After much deliberation she decides that she has to go to the loo. As she steps out of her room she trips over a Christmas stocking immediately outside her door. The spare room door is open. The parents are sitting in bed, each with a cup of tea, and are surrounded by crumpled wrapping paper and presents. TS goes back to bed.

9:00am - TS wakes again. As she steps out of her room she trips over a Christmas stocking immediately outside her door. Still. The parents are up, showered and dressed, and hopping from one foot to the other. "Is it time to open presents yet?" Father asks. "Coffee," TS states.

9:15 am - TS has convinced the parents to have breakfast first and presents after. She has prioritised a jug of coffee. It has helped. Bread, croissants, toasted muffins, and the obligatory range of six jars of preserve are served.

9:45 am - "Is it time to open presents yet?" Father asks. TS convinces the parents to clear the table first. The brother calls having already opened all presents. The Parents talk to the Brother. TS clears the table.

10:00 am - Present opening commences. All is calm. All is bright. Highlights include a slug trap and some smellies still bearing the "3 for 2" label. Classy.

11:00 am - "If that pudding doesn't go on soon we'll never be having it," Mother announces. TS puts pudding on to boil.

11:15 am - Present opening concludes. Father has put all his chocolates next to the radiator. The phone rings. "It'll be Great Aunt," mother concludes on the second ring. It is not. It is a friend calling with best wishes and thanks for presents. Great Aunt is pointedly called from a mobile phone in the kitchen.

11:45 am - Pudding is boiling, kitchen is clear of breakfast, oven is heating, phone conversations are concluded. TS decides to slope off for her shower.

12noon - TS comes out of the shower to be faced with a table cloth crisis. Her management training does not go to waste. Disaster averted. She can get dressed in peace.

12:05 pm - Father discovers he has left his chocolates next to the radiator. Mother is finding things in the kitchen. TS abandons hair and make up. Mother departs to do hair and make up. The bird goes in the oven.

1:45 pm - new potatoes cleaned, old potatoes and parsnips peeled and cut up to be roasted, baby carrots topped and tailed, sprouts peeled and crossed, stuffing made, red cabbage prepared, cranberry sauce located and tipped into a bowl, crudites chopped, dips and olives located, crisps, drinks poured, table laid, crockery located, crackers found, lost again, found again. Mother walks into kitchen and enquires whether I was going to put any make up on today. TS goes to put make up on and reassemble now rampant hair.

2:00 pm - TS glides downstairs, the picture of domestic goddishness, fully made up, hair rearranged, in jewellery which co-ordinates with her outfit. Father hands her a stiff G&T. She reclines by the fire. "Isn't it nice to sit down!" Mother declares.

2:01 pm - TS bastes the bird. Returns to gin.

2:03 pm - TS goes to heat oil for roast veg. Returns to gin.

2:05 pm - TS puts roast veg in oven. Returns to gin.

2:07 pm - TS remembers the sausages in the fridge and goes to put them in the oven. Returns to gin.

(Repeat for half an hour)

2:37 pm - Mother looks at watch and points out that it's nearly 3pm. TS deciphers code, drains gin and goes to throw starters together. Mother butters bread.

3:15 pm - Starters prepared and on table. Bird out of oven to rest (lucky bugger). All veg roasting / boiling accordingly. Mother is asked to make gravy. She frowns and shakes her head. She does not like the new roasting tin. Or the quality of what's come out of the bird. Or the shape of my table spoon ("It's different to mine. But I'm manage.") TS offers to make gravy. Mother says no. She'll do her best.

3:30 pm - Starters started.

3:35 pm - Starters finished. Return to kitchen. Father carves the bird. TS drains all veg / removes from oven accordingly, and transfers to serving dishes and to table. Mother is there too.

3:45 pm - All food on the table. TS surveys what she's achieved and is proud. Father says that the gravy looks like the best bit. TS bites her tongue.

4:15 pm - Everyone has had dinner and seconds. There is almost as much food left on the table as when we started. Mother says she told me there would be. TS racks brains to recall such a conversation. Plates are cleared.

4:16 pm - Father is asked to get cheese out and put on the table.

4:17 pm - Cheese is found spread liberally, still in it's wrappers, around the kitchen. TS decides to make up the cheese board herself.

4:30 pm - the Christmas pudding and white sauce are served. Disaster strikes when Mother realises she's forgotten the plastic sprig of holly for the top of the pudding. Life goes on.

4:45 pm - The thought of any more food makes TS feel a bit panicky, but there are standards to be met. Father and TS have token sliver of cheese each. Mother does not.

5:00 pm - TS says that the only thing she really wants to watch today is The Gruffalo at 5:30 so clears the table. She finishes clearing the kitchen. Loads the dishwasher. Washes the things that won't fit. finds things that have been "put away" and puts them away. She makes up a tray with coffee (two sorts), milk, cream, sugar, chocolates.

5:31 pm - TS enters living room. Gruffalo is not on. Father begrudgingly changes channels, then mutters throughout.

6:00 pm - Parents settle in for Dr Who. TS takes coffee things back to kitchen, puts ham on to boil for tomorrow, fixes broken candle holder thing, makes tea, finds cheese biscuits under dining table and transfers to tin. Finds more things that have been "put away". Puts them away.

7:00 pm - Father leaves lounge declaring Strictly Come Dancing "a load of old rubbish". TS re-enters lounge to watch said rubbish. Mother says, "Isn't it nice to sit down?"

7:01 pm - Mother falls asleep.

8:50 pm - Father re-enters lounge to peer at final scenes of Eastenders, play with candles, mutter about "a load of old rubbish" and prod Mother until she wakes up. TS misses seeing Archie Mitchell die.

9:05 pm - Father says he's had enough and is going to bed. Mother and TS watch a series of Christmas specials, before she decides to retire too.

Midnight - TS heads to bed for fear that she will soon turn back into a pumpkin. She is thankful to have had so much help preparing the feast. Really. She's not sure she could have done it alone ...

Well here it is ...

I've been bombing 'round since first light today (what am I saying? I've been bombing around all week!) dealing with food, parcels, and helping my parents absorb everything they've brought with them into the house (either they don't travel light, or they plan to stay for a while ...), and all the time pondering what I want to say to you all tonight.

In the end, after lots of head scratching, I have concluded that it is this ...

Merry Christmas!

With love

TT

x

Here we come a wassailing

I know, I know, that I bang on A Lot about how lovely my little village-within-a-city is, and also how slightly crazy my neighbourhood is, but humour me. For tonight was a prime example.

I would like you to picture a scene. Picture an email being circulated around a neighbourhood in July, suggesting that everyone gets together to sing a few hymns and other songs in the local pub, to celebrate the season. Picture 200 people turning out and sitting in the back room of the local pub and joining in. Picture those people all spontaneously knowing all the words to all the songs and all the tunes and singing with abandon. Picture those people whooping and clapping when someone sings a solo of one of the verses of their favourite hymn.

Totally inconceivable, no?

And yet, in December, if you call the hymns "carols", then it's a different story. An invite went around inviting us all to a carol sing-along and we all turned out.

What actually happened was a whistle-stop tour of the world's best loved carols - a quick fa la la la la la, and a bit of a ding dong, and a sneaky hark! within about 45 minutes. That, I can assure you, takes some doing. I. Was. Pooped.

Then the evening of "Christmas" songs went from the sublime ...

(Yes ... they are Abba-ettes. The only thing less Christmassy than Easter)

... to the ridiculous ...

(for those unused to student discos, those are the words to "I Will Survive" by Gloria Gaynor).

It's all quite bizarre. The youngest in the room were teenagers, and the oldest in their 70's. The solid rugby playing men saved up their voices for a resounding "FIVE GOLD RINGS" and the young girls gave a dainty "sire, he lives a good league hence". The young 'uns looked obligingly blank when we sang it "My Way" and the oldies looked slightly embarrassed when we sang, with gusto, that there was a place for us (somehow, someway, somewhere). But everyone, to a man sat, and bellowed out the songs for the benefit only of everyone else in the room and their own personal enjoyment. I even sang an Abba song. And THAT takes some doing. The carols and the Christmas songs took up maybe a half of the evening, before the old classics took over. But somewhere in the midst of it all was the Spirit of Christmas. Alive and well in a slightly odd suburb of south London.

Hope your festivities are giving you at least some of the warm glow that I'm currently feeling.

TT

x

In the words of Noddy Holder ...

... it's Christmas.

I might have been a little slow to catch up, but, as of today, it is Christmas in my house.

It's hardly registered with me at all that it's happening. I mean, there's been a vague awareness that something festive is happening in the world, but not with any specific focus.

Yesterday morning it hit me. In a week it's Christmas. Which I'm hosting. Admittedly only for my parents - just us three - but still. My fridge was empty. My house undecorated. My presents unwrapped. My spirit particularly unfestive.

In two days, I've turned it around.

My store cupboard is now groaning under the weight of yummy goodies. I managed to neglect to buy any normal food, but the calorie overload of the Christmas / Boxing Day dining table is sorted.

The house smells like Christmas. There is a heady combination of Christmas tree, satsuma, wrapping paper, and cloves about the place, which is very warming. And is it me, or do decorations have a certain smell. I think it's the aroma of last year, tucked in a box for 12 months.

My tree is, it's true, the smallest tree in South London, standing at a heady three foot six. But I've managed to get 120 fairy lights on it. And whilst I cringe slightly at the tack associated with Christmas, I'm a bit pleased with the opulent combination of glass baubles, porcelain snowflakes, and jangling bells that I've managed to pack on. The lowest hanging decorations do just skim

the floor and I'm aware that this might put pay to any plans Santa might have to arrange the plethora of presents that I am, no doubt, due under the tree.

Call me old fashioned, but I don't think the decs are complete without Nativity somewhere. I'm not a particularly religious person, but I do think it's only fair to give a small nod to the

little baby Jesus, in whose name we do all this. When we were small, our Nativity was made of cardboard and was folded and assembled each year. Inevitably the sheep and wise men would be arranged into compromising positions at some point over the holidays, and my Grandmother would have to be distracted whilst the stable was put back in order. I think these little fellas, standing just an inch tall, will be enough to do the job, without Doing The Job ...

And of course, no amount of decoration would be complete without the magic mistletoe berries. It's a funny little tradition, but one, nevertheless, that I feel strongly that a single girl-about-town ought to respect. My spring is therefore hanging in the hallway, waiting for some action ...

It's been a lovely, lovely day. Punctuated by a quite trip to down-town Furzedown for carolling, and a lot of crooning (my rendition of Silver Bells is enough to make Dean Martin squirm).

I'm really looking forward now to some good Crimbly baking tomorrow and to practicing a bit of The First Noel! Ho ho ho!!

The season of goodwill to all men.

Well ... most men.

No?

Some men?

A few men?

Just a couple?

Nope. Sorry folks, but I am here to report that in The Big Smoke, the sentiment of the season has yet to reach everyone.

I am usually one of a few thousand faceless, soulless, unblinking commuters passing through Victoria station. Through Monday to Thursday, sometime around 8:15am, and again at around 6:15pm I race across the concourse without looking left or right, but with my eyes firmly on the goal. Frankly, every other soul in the station could be dressed as the Easter bunny, and it's unlikely that I'd notice.

Today I have travelled to my ancestral home (a 70's housing estate in Kent) in anticipation of a friend's wedding tomorrow, so had to travel into Victoria on one line, and back out on another, giving me about half an hour to dilly-dally in the middle of the afternoon.

I purchased myself a gingerbread latte (from AMT. Tooting Tooting coffee rating ... 5 stars!) before taking my place in the under-timetable huddle. As I took in my surroundings, I saw that, in the middle of the station, the Salvation Army band was about to strike up.

There is nothing that quite warms the cockles of my heart like a nice brass band playing a carol or two. In The Bleak Midwinter is a particular fave. It makes me feel all festive and jolly and I can almost smell the mulled wine just listening to it (or is it a gingerbread latte?) so I was quietly thrilled that this would be my entertainment until the stampede for Platform 1.

Oh, it was lovely! I almost welled up a little bit! It was, I think, the first time that I have felt truly Christmassy this year. And then ...

I didn't notice the huddle of three girls next to me, but in retrospect I wonder how they'd passed me by. In uniforms of skinny jeans and Ugg boots (is it only me that thinks 'Minnie Mouse' whenever I see this look?), and laden with Primark paper bags, they were having a loud, and detailed, "he said, she said..." conversation, and my instincts told me that they were headed for the same train as me. I was making a mental note anyway to keep my eyes peeled and aim for another carriage, when the conversation stopped abruptly.

In a loud and uncharacteristically clear voice, the ringleader drawled, "What. The fuck. Is that ..." and pointed a terrifyingly manicured finger towards the band. Her friends turned to look, and one of them, a little embarrassed looking, said, "they're playing carols, innit? For Christmas? It's, like, Hark the Herald Angels or somefink?" (The question marks are there because that's how she phrased it. I blame Home and Away).

The finger pointer's jaw dropped. This was clearly the most shocking news she'd had in many a year. Without tearing her eyes off the Sally Annes, she turned her nose up and confirmed her feelings to all around her with the following immortal words ...

... "well it sounds fucking shit."

And god bless us ... every one.

Dressing for dinner

A friend of mine is quite giddy with excitement at the fact that he's just booked his DJ for his company Christmas party.

I rally a bit against organised fun. It makes me come out in a bit of a rash. I loathe New Year, I struggle with hen parties, I try my best not to have a birthday unless I can help it. Any event, basically, which involves a host of planning, and won't live up to expectation makes me squirm.

But a wee bit of me felt wistful for the big dressy affair. It's been such a long time since I properly dressed up, and I do so love it. I used to work for bit corporate monsters which had annual dinners, and now I work for small niche firms where that sort of thing just isn't practical. I haven't put on an evening dress and heels for such a long time, and I'm not sure when I will next get the chance to. I wonder ... do we little girls ever tire of playing at dressy ups?

So today at lunchtime I was feeling a bit twitchy, and in need of a walk, so I left the office and wandered up Carnaby Street. The windows are all full of party outfits and sparkles now, and there are shoes, shoes, shoes to be gawped at, but nothing that I really need, so I kept walking.

At the top of the street, I ducked into Liberty's back door, and wandered aimlessly through gifts, perfumes, bags, jewellery, and lots of lovely things to satisfy my glamour craving.

Out the front door and on to Regent Street, and again with the windows full of sequins, sparkles, silk, satin, fluff, and feather. I slipped into one or two shops to let the fabrics run through my fingers and think lovely party thoughts, then back out again, and on up to Oxford Circus.

I decided that I ought to head back to the office, so I shuffled through the scrums, and nipped through a department store, back to Carnaby Street and to the office.

A shame, I hear you mutter, that, with such romantic shopping notions, and so many opportunities, I should come home empty handed.

Well you're WRONG! Of COURSE I bought something! Of COURSE I have something new and exciting to slip on. Of COURSE I have something just perfect for the approaching holiday season.

I am sitting here, typing this post, whilst wearing ... my NEW SLIPPERS. With pom poms on the toes. Oh yes! I am ready for the Christmas party season, and I'm doing it in style!

Ho ho ho!

In Which Some Stuff Happens #2

1) My journey to work this morning was a series of perfections. I got to the station just as the train was pulling into the station, and got the last seat in the carriage (admittedly half under a particularly broad man), then got to the bus stand just as a fresh new bus was pulling up. Perfect!

2) I've been spreading my exciting news at work. Some people have been surprised, but supportive and happy for me. Some have been oddly stern and disapproving. Some have entirely ignored me, leaving me feeling like something of a social leper (mother has suggested I ring a bell as I walk through the office, calling out, "unclean!"). One was, I believe, a little jealous.

3) I got an impromptu invitation to lunch with some old friends. We went to a good old fashioned boozer up the road and all had pie and mash for lunch. It was wicked, but terribly, terribly good. Over lunch, one friend started a story with the phrase, "it all started to go wrong with the plaster on that bathroom wall. It's a long story ..." and the rest of the story was drowned out in our snorts of laughter. It's a wonderful feeling to spend time with friends good enough that we can all fall into the same jokes so quickly.

4) Regent Street's Christmas lights were turned on this evening. (Might I be the first to wish you all a very merry Christmas.) I had intended to run out of the office promptly and join the fun, but I got held up. Then, just as I was finishing up, the firework display started, and my desk turned out to be the prime spot to watch it from. What a lovely surprise!

5) I have all the bits now to make the headdress for my friend, the lovely Angela, for her wedding, so am about to setting in with pearls and crystals and wire, and create something lovely. At least, that's the intention ...