I waited until after midnight and thwarted Blogger!

Hah! Pictures!

At last I took photos of the papier maché crib figures made for the village church by Year 4 at the village school. They are quite large - the standing figures are about knee high. They can stay up until Candlemas, whatever and whenever that is. I've a feeling it is sometime in February.

I particularly like the shepherd (middle figure, right of the angel). He looks as if he has swigged a few deep draughts from his hipflask. Jesus also has a beatific smile on his face. Joseph (bottom right) has amazing boggle eyes that come just above his head band.


These animals are an ox, an ass and a sheep. They are almost identical, but the clue is in the ears.




Yesterday was the Feast of the Epiphany, when the Magi turned up with their highly symbolic but useless presents. Well, apart from the gold. That would have come in handy on the Flight Into Egypt


Jesus did have a manger, but he broke it so he has to sleep in a box lid. He is not at all tired at present and nor is Mary, who looks wide eyed and startled. It is a wonderful and funny crib and makes me smile every time I see it.

I tried to catch the last post, but Blogger would not oblige

I wrote you a nice little post this afternoon, with pictures and Blogger wouldn't take them. Not directly, not via Photobucket, not even one at a time. It still won't tonight. Maybe tomorrow.

This evening, Ro and I went to the cinema! To Pan's Labyrinth, (el Laberinto del Fauno) a Spanish film set in 1944, after Franco's victory and directed by Guillermo del Toro. It was well done, but I'd check it out on iMDb or something before seeing it as it was a trifle unusual. Brutal Fascist captain, guerilla fighters, little girl in a strange labyrinth on a quest. The monster with eyes in his hands was splendid.

From tomorrow, I'll be running Al's shop for him as he and the family will be on holiday for a week. It will be a great pleasure and absolutely knackering. He has left a note for his deliverers, asking them not to put the heaviest boxes, of oranges and bananas and the like, on the top shelf as I am not very big.

If music be the food ...

It's always a pleasure to hear the correct use of the subjunctive tense and the Bard does not often disappoint.

It is, of course, Twelfth Night. The decorations have been tenderly put in their boxes. The blowsy fairy, which originally belonged to the Sage's grandmother, received particular care. Her face is, though highly coloured, not unattractive but her hair is just a mess and her dress, made by my mother-in-law several decades ago, is a particularly unattractive green. I feel she deserves a new one, but will forget about it for the next 49 weeks and I won't have time then.

Squiffany wanted to call in this morning. We had been out in the garden, watching the tractor with a fork-lift shifting the root of the fallen pine tree. The lad driving the tractor is only 18; he has worked for the farmer for a year since leaving school, but we were impressed by his skill and care. The previous boy had been a disappointment as an employee - he didn't appreciate the early start to the day that is required on a dairy farm and was often late or absent. Young O is another matter and he's already trusted to do skilled work.

Dilly was going to take the children shopping in Norwich, so there wasn't time to visit, so an invitation was issued for later on. Instead, I took her to see the impressive gap in the hedge that will be cut to a row of stumps and allowed to regrow. Good friend Jamie was startled to see my handiwork and teased me about my vigour with a saw. I didn't mind, as long as he kept removing the debris. The hedge had been about 15 feet tall and there were large branches to drag away.

By noon, it was raining steadily so I went grocery shopping while the chaps started to clear the greenhouse which the chickens will be invited to ramble through for the next couple of months. I was talkng to my friend Mark the Butcher as he cut me some cheese and weighed the meat when his boss, John the Butcher came up. "When you've finished chatting to Z" he said "we need to talk about where you are putting sausage skins. And how much water you're putting them in." Mark had put the skins in a tub, filled it with water and put in on a high shelf. John, reaching for them, had tipped them over himself. He was wet and unhappy. I offered a hug. He said he really needed a shower and a change of clothes. My offer had not extended further than a hug, however, so I paid and left.

Later, Dilly and Squiffany turned up. "She didn't forget, she's been saying 'call at Granny's house' all the way home." Squiffany's face lit up when she saw the Pooping Reindeer. He is small and plastic and contains 10 brown jelly beans, which he excretes when you press his back. This entertained her for a good half hour. "Poo-poo!, hah hah hah" is a good joke which bears much repetition. "RoRo, poo-poo, hah hah hah" "Granny, poo-poo, hah hah hah." RoRo and I were surprisingly entertained too, there really is nothing quite like a baby's laughter.

Who else?

Your results:
You are Supergirl

Supergirl 78% Superman 75% Iron Man 65% Wonder Woman 63% Robin 45% Hulk 45% Catwoman 40% Green Lantern 40% Batman 35% Spider-Man 30% The Flash 25%

Lean, muscular and feminine. Honest and a defender of the innocent.

Click here to take the "Which Superhero am I?" quiz...


Lean is way out, by a good ten years. I'm a bit concerned that I'm 45% Hulk* so no work will be done on the Muscular.

Thanks to BD for pointing me in the right direction and so encouraging me to fritter away my time. This is not a complaint. Frittering is what I dedicate my life to.

*Funnily enough, I'm quite pleased by 65% Iron Man.

Z wields her new pruning saw

I've spent an energetic and productive couple of hours in the garden. The sycamore sapling is no more! I counted the rings, it was nine years old, which just shows how long it took me to get around to the job. Although, to be kind (and whom should one be kind to, if not oneself?), it spent quite some time hiding among other shrubs before it was noticed.

I have cut back quite a lot of the boring laurel hedge. It was immensely tall when we moved here and we had it cut to ground level. It has been cut back many times since, but I can't keep up with it and it is never a pruning with secateurs sort of job, or even with loppers, but needs a saw. It is too useful a screen to do away with entirely.

After all this, I returned to the house and finally finished the Christmas food. Well, apart from three-quarters of the Christmas cake, which will linger for weeks. The last of the meat. We finished the beef on Monday and the remains of the Boxing Day lamb became Scotch Broth and Shepherd's Pie. So, lunchtime today was leftovers of these. Whew. A clear fridge. Ah. That means it's time to buy more food.

It was a particularly excellent Scotch broth, in fact. I took a packet of wholegrain barley out of the cupboard and saw that the use-by date was Feb 06. I wasn't sure how stale barley actually goes, but cooked it for the chickens and bought fresh. In fact, when cooked, it was fine and I could have used it, but the chickens certainly enjoyed it, especially as it was still warm. I made the stock for the soup with vegetables and the lamb bone, which still had quite a deal of meat on, and the chickens had that to peck clean too. Of course, Scotch broth should really be made with neck of lamb, but I always find that you get little bits of bone left, and you have to eat it cautiously. Lots of onion, turnip, carrot, leek and cabbage; it was almost more stew than soup.

Back to the garden. More pruning to be done. Joy!!

And first, I'm going to cut down that sycamore sapling

I have spent the last hour reading blogs. This is not a sensible use of my time when there is work to do, but a week spent not nosying into your lives has left me feeling that I've been left out of all the fun.

Several of you have been making New Year Resolutions. Or have resolved not to. There's only one resolution I'd really appreciate all Blogger bloggers making, and that is to moderate your comments before publishing, rather than go for word verification. WV is the most annoying thing imaginable, because, however carefully and accurately you type and check the letters, they are usually refused the first time.

As for me, I don't do resolutions because I don't set myself up to fail. But I will this time, because I think I'll do them all. Except possibly the last.

I. I will start building my wall. When the Sage has chosen the bricks at last, I will make a start. In fact, I'll have a friendly chat on the subject today.

2. I will take clarinet lessons again. The other day, I was listening to a Mozart trio and knew that, ten years ago, I could play that really well and now I could not attempt it. I didn't realise, although my teacher told me, that actually I became pretty good, especially if I was playing jazz or blues and Mozart. I also fancy playing the tenor saxophone (I can play Ro's alto sax, but it's heavy on my neck, whereas you can rest the tenor on your hip), but first things first.

3. I will carry on with broadening my musical range. I started last summer when I persuaded Ro to let me have some of the stuff he listens to - excitingly, my iTunes list now contains categories such as 'Alternative and Punk' and 'Electronic', which makes a good addition to the usual 'Classical' and 'Jazz'. Tom Lehrer is categorised as 'Folk', which would probably piss him off mightily.
I really will get to the Aldeburgh Festival this year. I've missed the last few years as I have to go on my own. The people I sometimes go to concerts with prefer more accessible music than is sometimes on offer at the Festival. I will go to hear a couple of pieces that I don't know at all (see 3) and may not like. I often find that music, of whatever type, that is hard to listen to at first is, in the end, the most worth getting to know.

4. I will (all being well) continue to be frivolous. People like me when I'm happy. I have noticed (and I'm sure it's the same for you too) that my mood affects my family. If I'm cheerful, it lightens them too.

5. This is more of a wish than a resolution... I'll get to London more. Again, it'll have to be on my own - unless I'm meeting my sister or daughter which is always a delight, of course. But I get more done on my own, I go to museums, exhibitions, and explore unknown streets. I love to walk in cities, it's the only way to get to know them. One is never lost for too long, there's always a clue to your whereabouts.

pictures!

Friend of Gustav was shocked but unhurt.

He had thrown himself facedown to the ground to protect his hibernating little chums

The Sage and Ro measured the trunk. 48 foot long.

We reckon the tree was at least 75 years old. Probably, Pa and Ma (my in-laws) planted it when they first moved here - they bought the house in 1928 and moved in about a year later while work was still being done.



Spare tiles are kept outside so they have weathered and you'd hardly know which are the replacements. It's a temporary repair but it's weatherproof for now.

If you know of a better 'ole...

... go to it. A picture of the Sage!!(!)

Perishing phone line

So, where was I? Right here, but without a telephone or internet. The photos* tell it all, really, so if you prefer, you can just Marvel and Wonder at the narrow escape my family had – any closer and they would have had to move in with me and realise the more interesting aspects of Living With Z. Al knows all about it of course; many years ago he took the photo of Mum’s kitchen all round New Zealand to remind him of home (get it at the right angle and all you can see is chaos) but his wife and children only get hints of my version of home comforts.

I had just sat down to tell you about Bananaman, when I became aware that the wind had strengthened and there was, suddenly, a gale blowing outside. Then I heard a ‘thwumph’. It was not a loud noise, but it was wrong. I jumped up, calling to the Sage that something had blown down and grabbed a coat and a torch.

The gap was the first thing I noticed. The absence of tree. The pine tree outside Al and Dilly’s bungalow was missing. Instead, there was a large hole in the ground and a large tree on its side in their garden. The sound I heard must have been the roots tearing themselves out of the ground and the swish of the fall. There was no crash. It touched and broke the corner tiles of the bungalow and tore off the soffit board. It landed on sticking-out branch stumps, having had its fall broken at the last by the garden roller. Because of these stumps, it is balanced above, rather than on, the row of flower tubs on the patio. The light on the corner of the bungalow was still alight.

I went indoors to tell Dilly and stayed with the children while she went to look – by this time, the rain had stopped and the wind had died down. I explained to Squiffany what had happened and we went to look out of the window. “Tree, huge, in garden. Leaves, tree, HUGE. Dark. Wet.” she said, accurately.

Our good and useful friend Jamie came round the next morning with his chainsaw and we spent the best part of three hours cutting up the tree (a good section of trunk has been left in one piece and will, in due course, be Useful Timber for floorboards or whatever. No resin at all came out of the trunk so the logs will, when dried out for a year or two, go in the woodburner.

However, we couldn't do anything about the phone line.. Theirs was broken and ours didn’t work. It being a Bank Holiday weekend and a stormy one too, it took until today for an engineer to come round. I did pop down to the local internet café on Tuesday (one computer in the back room of the computer shop, with the chair too low and the monitor too high) to check emails, but I couldn’t blog from there, it didn’t feel right.

I’ll tell you about Bananaman another time.

*whenever Blogger lets me upload them.

Z feels frivolous

And, most secretly and subtly, for no one knows this but you and I, demonstrates the fact by wearing a suspender belt and stockings.

And by eating a Hot Cross Bun for breakfast.

Oh yes, life in the Z household is a blast!

Still sleeping the day away

Today, I intended to do hearty and useful jobs in the garden, using my New Tools. However, it has rained and in any case I fell asleep. I woke up to find Tilly lying still with an uncomfortable expression on her face; she was relieved that I moved as it meant she could. She is a polite little dog and did not wish to disturb me.

I didn't mention, yesterday, that I spent some time last night, with a certain déja vu, making holly wreaths again. A late order. Someone who has been in hospital and is now just well enough to go out and about and wishes to place Christmas wreaths on his parents' and late wife's graves. Well, what can you say. Naturally, Al said "Yes" and then tentatively asked his father if he thought that Mum would mind...
When Mum heard that the gentleman concerned is Gordon, best known locally for feeding the poultry at the famous roundabout, she agreed with quite good grace. I'm afraid that the song is not quite up to the quality of Jonny B's Post Office one but, on the other hand, the campaign to keep the chooks worked; they were decided not to be a traffic hazard and are still there. The number of hens fluctuates, but is certainly exceeded by that of cocks.

I wonder what to cook for dinner. I have beetroot. It might be risotto. Beetroot, although good, is not my very favourite risotto, but is worth making for the startling colour, as well as the frisson of nervousness the next morning when you wonder what has gone wrong with your insides.

Whatever 'normal' is ...

... I'm not back there yet. Largely because of the lengthy afternoon naps I have, which may last anything up to an hour and which are making Tilly very happy because we are having Quality Time stretched out on the sofa under a blanket together.

I am awake in the mornings and evenings however, and today we went to a Special Party. This is held annually to celebrate the birthday of Lord Bruin, who has been her constant companion since her first Christmas, 90 years ago. It is always a splendid party. She is an artist, she lives in about the most beautiful setting you could imagine, in an old water mill. Her studio is on the top floor from which she has wonderful views of the Waveney Valley. The real guests are the bears but one is invited to accompany them; they have their own party upstairs, with competitions. Ro's bear Edboes won the Most Loved Bear prize a few years ago. The rest of us have delicious food and lots to drink downstairs, except for the awarding of the prizes.

You think I'm making this up? I swear I'm not. It is all true. She invites all her friends including all the people whom she knows and who help her, such as her local butcher, greengrocer (Al), windowcleaner, gardener etc. Al couldn't go as the shop was open, but Dilly, the children, the Sage and I went. Squiffany behaved beautifully, chatting politely to people (mainly to introduce her brother and her teddy bear, whom she thought a little young to go upstairs). Afterwards, I popped in to the shop for some veggies. Al was looking a bit tired. "It's been frantic" he said, "like the week before Christmas. I didn't think I'd be very busy."

My present, which so excited me, was - were - a splendid folding pruning saw (600, on the left) with a vicious blade and matching secateurs for small hands furthermore, which I thought was a particularly nice touch. My sister, hearing me enthuse, said that she would not have welcomed such a practical and outdoorsy gift. Of course, this is the point - if you are going to give a useful gift, it has to be absolutely spot-on or it is dull at best, insulting at worst. "He didn't blunt the edges" observed Ro. "He must think you are growing up." And indeed, he has been known to remove new knives from my bloody fingers and dull the blade because he can't bear the sight any longer.

The other present, with which I was also just too thrilled, was half of a pair of L*w*s*o*t cutlery; that is, a fork. He bought the knife for himself. Now, do not think for one moment that this was a selfish act of retention, it was more significant than any eternity ring - it was a Sign. "We can never split up now" I said. "We can't divide the knife and fork after 240 years."

I should perhaps explain, by the way, that the handles are made from L't porcelain and the blade and prongs from steel. They were made about 1765, which is fairly early in the life of the factory. They are not undamaged and have been repaired, but we don't care at all about this as they are very rare and lovely.

My sister went home today and El and Phil left to visit his parents. So it will be quiet here tonight. Except from my usual carousing, of course.

So, how well does my husband know me?

I squealed with surprised delight. The Sage had got it so right. He had chosen a perfect present and given me no clue.
Then he gave me another parcel. I squeaked higher and louder with renewed excitement.

Glasses shattered. Children cowered in the corner, hands over their ears. The dog howled, bats rose, flapping, from the eaves and mice crawled from their holes, paws risen in supplication and surrender.

I am, it must be said, a pleasure to buy presents for.

This evening, we were making coffee. He added milk to my sister's mug and waved the bottle in my direction. "Do you take milk?" he asked.

Jesus is back!!(!)

I called on a friend to wish him a happy Christmas. I gave him a hug. "Whoo, have you missed me?" he asked, as I leaned and didn't let go for a while. Yes, I had, he's a sweetheart and I hadn't seen him for some time, but he was also very nice and comfortable to lean on. It was 9 in the morning, 5 hours after starting work.

Al got a bit frantic at one point during the afternoon as it was extremely busy, not helped by me disappearing for a while in an unscheduled sort of way. We caught up eventually and he put in his order before 5 o'clock - hoping that there will, in fact, be a delivery tomorrow. Back at 6 tomorrow morning, and I hope that by 4 pm I'll be ready to leave to get ready for the carol service at 6. I have not practised the clarinet, which is a bit of a shame as I am accompanying the pre-carol service carol singing for half an hour - it's not the notes I'm worried about getting wrong, but that my lip muscles will be tired and wobbly by the end of it, and since there was a bright idea of me leading two carols during the service too (as being more appropriate than the organ for 'Silent Night' and 'Away in a Manger'), I want enough puff and embouchure to take me through that without inappropriate dribbling. Too late now to be any use, however. It'll be fine. The worst thing that'll happen is that I'll look a fool and that is a given fact at the best of times.

Oh, and baby Jesus from the church crib suddenly turned up, a year after being discovered to be missing. He is a very naughty boy. I must remember to take a photo of the other crib, which is fabulous. The children from the village school made it last year from papier maché. Everyone has fabulous pop eyes and we can't tell which animal is which. Last year, we turned the altar into a stable, which was most effective, and this year they are positioned at the back and the nice old plaster crib is at the front of the church, with Jesus about to be reinstated. Last year he was replaced by a Plasticene understudy.

Happy Christmas, darlings.

The razor-blade is too sharp to hurt much

Kenny, our 87-year-old gardener, who doesn't actually garden any longer but just comes round on a Friday for old time's sake, came in for a cup of coffee this morning, so I didn't get the presents wrapped. No matter, plenty of time. I was back at the shop by noon and have just got home. Al hasn't; he was about to do his order for tomorrow. He says he'll have to go in earlier tomorrow, to get everything done. I said, whenever it is, I'll go with him.

I have a brace of partridges in the fridge which, wrapped in streaky bacon and roasted, will make an easy meal. Ro is not fond of game so he will have chicken, similarly wrapped.

And an early night, perhaps.

Update, 7.30 pm. Al has just called in, on his way back to the shop to phone through his orders. He says he is going to start work at 4 o'clock tomorrow morning. I assured him resolutely that I will be ready. Furthermore, that he is right, as it will mean less pressure later in the day.

When he left, I poured a large glass of Cabernet Sauvignon.

'Bum', I thought. 'BUM.'

197 years and 8 months

At some point yesterday evening there were six women chatting in one room. The brother of one of us had been told by his wife, a couple of months ago, that their marriage was ended - his business had gone bankrupt and she didn't intend to stand by him. "How long have they been married?" asked someone. "Twenty-eight years." We were silent for a bit. "We're a bit unusual, all six of us have grown-up children and we're still with our husbands." I asked each of them how long they had been married, and totted it up. Thirty-seven, thirty-five, thirty-three, thirty-two, thirty-one and twenty-six. And all of us still in our fifties...though not all of our husbands. "By July we'll have two hundred years between us, we'd better have a party."

We left around 11.30, but I still had wreaths to finish so it was half-past one by the time I was in bed, and I was up again four hours later to help Al put together his orders. By the time his three staff came in at 8.30, they were done except for the few items waiting for the Mr Fru1ty delivery.

I've had breakfast - bacon, eggs and tomato - and I've got some clearing up to do, bits of holly all over the floor. Then I'll wrap the rest of the presents. It all seems very calm and organised, I wonder what I've forgotten.

Z catches up with the rest of the country

Today is the day that our Christmas tree will go up. Not for a few hours yet, first I have to make more wreaths and clear up afterwards. Then - and this is several days early - I might wrap some presents, simply because they are in bags behind the sofa and rather too accessible to an inquisitive toddler.

I saw Dilly running down the drive an hour ago. I assumed - correctly - that she was chasing Squiffany with the intention of strapping her in her car seat, so I put on my coat (my mother never did learn that it was not a bad idea to put on her coat before going out on a cold day, rather than getting thoroughly chilled and taking the next hour to warm up again) and hurried out. When she heard my voice, Squiffany called from the car "Hello Granny" - this is said with such charm, it melts me every time. I stayed with her while her mum went to fetch Pugsley. We chatted about her new gloves, each finger of which is a different colour. She correctly told me pink, green and orange, hesitated over yellow, got blue right, but I had to tell her purple*.

They will be back at about 4, so will come in to help do the tree then.

Tonight, we are going to a party with particularly darling friends; she is also cousin to the Sage. You might not be able to choose your relations, but if I could, I'd pick her.

So, I'm writing now in case I'm a bit incoherent later.


*yes, there is a logical explanation if you think about it.

Are you being served?

Al made his fruit baskets today. Four at £15 and three at £10. They are popular as presents for the Person Who Has Everything And Hasn't Space For Anything More, as they have the virtue of being used up and just leaving you a nice basket to play with at the end. Each of them takes about half an hour to do (time not included in the price) and so he needed a shop assistant so that he could get on with the job and be finished by noon.

I like being a shop assistant so much. His customers are lovely. One chap came in with two presents, one for the shop and one for the shop down the road which makes no concession to the season but shuts on Wednesday regardless. They were from Freda, who can't get out much but rings all the local shops to put in her orders for delivery on a Friday. Val at the pet shop mentioned that she delivers to Freda - Al said, he goes every Friday, he'd be happy to take her order too. That's all right, said Val, Freda likes a selection of cat toys taken round so that she and the cat can choose a new one. It's not a delivery that can be delegated.

Chestnuts are particularly good this year. The English crop was good, but now the French ones are being sold. Walnuts are also really delicious. Al rather fell out with one of his wholesalers - once the local suppliers were sold out, he bought a bag (these are not cheap, over £50 wholesale) but thought they were a bit lacking in flavour. Upon enquiry, it transpired that they were last year's stock. Crossly, he sent them back, knocked them off the bill and bought fresh ones from his other wholesaler. Very naughty, and the way to lose customers. And if Al loses a customer over one detail, he may be gone forever.

Until the last couple of days, it has been very mild, so there have been plenty of local cauliflowers and calabrese, which may be frosted by now. There has been freezing fog; a still, cold day today. Going into town, we drove through a patch of fog, and straight out again. It was like going through the smoke of a bonfire, it was so patchy. The land is very low-lying around us, it's on the flood plain of the River Waveney, used for grazing cattle most of the year and left to become waterlogged in the winter. The Sage remembers, as a boy, ice-skating on the frozen waterways, but they don't freeze hard enough for that now.

Guilt kicked in

Al sold out of wreaths again today. So I've been making a new batch. The Sage went out to pick fir and holly (all our friends have bare bushes - ooh, chilly - by Christmas time) and I started work. Ouch. The fir was prickly. He hadn't realised, because he had worn gloves.

I started work, and by the time I went to cook dinner, I'd done seven bases and completed four of them - I do a base of fir on the wire framework and top it with berried holly. Those people who like artificial flowers can have them, but only red or white.

I started again after dinner, 'ouch'ing as I went. When half-way through the fifth, I held up my hands. They were bleeding. The Sage was stricken with remorse - he'd been able to ignore the 'ouch'es, but physical evidence of my pain was something else.

We did the last few together.

Tomorrow morning, Al has seven fruit baskets to make up. He doesn't have extra staff in the shop on a Wednesday, which used to be his half day until he discovered how much business he was losing in the afternoon. So I will be wrapping up very warmly and being his glamorous assistant for the morning, or however long it takes.

This evening, he thanked me. I was really embarrassed. You don't want your children to be grateful for their parents' help - appreciative is nice, but grateful is unnecessary.

Until January, that is, when he and his family are going on holiday and I will be left in charge of the shop!!(!) Then he will owe me big time.

Eight yards of silk and a glass of beer

Well, since Jen, Martina and Stitchwort mention it - the sari in the pub. No photo however, I'm afraid as it doesn't exist.

I went to a party a few days before Christmas - this would be five years ago. My friends Bob and Di were the hosts; charming and hospitable as always. We all ate and drank rather a lot over several hours - they live in the village, within walking distance for most of us, so we were were able to relax and not count the units.

At some point, Bob told us about a fancy dress party they had been to, before moving to Mahsrae (I'm imitating BD and using backspeak, to save myself from the Power of Google). He went as Gandhi. This was not an obvious choice; he is slim but well built, with a head of thick white hair and a white beard and moustache (he does not look in the least like Father Christmas) and it was a little hard to imagine, but apparently he managed to make himself look convincing by means of a home-made dhoti - the turban was less authentic. Someone, knowing I'd worn a sari at a wedding I had been to in Madras earlier that year, said we'd make an attractive pair.

We had already all agreed to meet up at the village pub on Christmas Day for a quick drink before the family festivities. I'm not sure who first suggested it - it could even have been me - but at some point I did say that I'd wear my sari if he'd wear his dhoti. He agreed. I'm afraid he was one over the eight at the time.

On Christmas Day there is a church service at ten in the morning, at which I always play the organ. A sari-wearing blonde organist is an unlikely sight in an English country church, but not an unwelcome one, I hope. Afterwards I walked the half-mile to church. There was Bob. In trousers, a shirt and a jacket. Pfft.

Anyway, they were pleased to see me and quite impressed, not least for my sari-folding skills - secure with no pins. Furthermore, not many middle-aged women go around, even now, in this country with a bare midriff and no one had ever seen mine before. It is a simple sari, in plain dark red, fine georgette silk, and the short tight blouse is decorated with gold thread. I stood chatting, clutching my half pint, and I felt something cold at my waist. I turned. Bob, giggling, was pressing his pint mug to my exposed flesh. Really, he's such a boy.

Is it too early to mention Christmas?

There will be a Trustees meeting here at 6 o'clock this evening. Having made yet more wreaths this morning (58 so far, so the Sage tells me), I have just hoovered up the debris and put a rug over the stains. I looked around. There is no sign of Christmas in the room at all.

Is there anyone else who decorates the house for Christmas, rather than for the whole of December? I think that you have three weeks for preparation and the festivities start on Christmas Eve and go on until 6th January (Epiphany). That's a fortnight; Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and the Twelve Days of Christmas. But this relaxed, albeit expectant, attitude seems at odd with the rest of the country. I can understand shops, offices and schools decorating early, but does one not get fed up with dusty old cards and greenery by the New Year, if they've already been dangling around for a month?

I won't deny that there is a certain degree of procrastination in my attitude. And when my children was young, we were persuaded to put the tree up a week or so in advance. In those days, we used to make elaborate decorations, most of which have fallen apart now. One year we made Father Christmases, using golf balls as heads. These bowed the tree branches down considerably and if I do the same thing in future with the grandbabies I will learn from it and use ping pong balls.

The smartest decorations for the tree date from the time Al and El took stained glass classes. Al made lots of glass decorations; angels, Father Christmases, bells, Christmas trees etc. These are also heavy, but we just make sure we buy a sturdy tree.

I bought some Fairtrade tree ornaments. These include little wooden dolls, wearing saris. How multicultural. Have I told you about the time I wore a sari to the village pub? It doesn't take much in this village to cause a sensation.