What you will

 

Just before Christmas, I was out delivering community newsletters. People were beginning to put up lights outside their houses, and inside I could see trees being decorated and people wrapping presents. Now we're at Twelfth Night, and those same houses are looking bare, with just the occasional deflated Santa clinging to a chimney pot. 

 As usual, I haven't made any New Year resolutions. I used to when I was a child: be kinder to my little brother; do my homework on time; pick up my clothes off the floor before bedtime; then later it was the usual things like losing weight, getting fit, cutting down on the tea and biscuits. I never lasted much beyond February, so now I just don't bother. Nor do I engage with Dry January, Veganuary or any other such nonsense. I prefer to decide for myself when things need a shake-up. 

The other thing is that it's so hard to predict what the coming week will bring, never mind the next year. Looking back I see I posted this on 1 January 2020: 

'I don't know if you've noticed, but a new year has started today. Honestly, to look at FaceAche you'd think it had never happened before. I'm SO fed up of people telling me how great 2020 is going to be. I hope they're right and I shall do my damnedest to make it so, but let's wait and see, shall we?'

 Need I say more?

The title of this blog is, of course, the subtitle of Shakespeare's Twelfth Night from which this quote comes:  'Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.'

I'll just leave that with you.

How I learnt to tell a crumhorn from a shawm

You might recall that I held the book launch for A Sparge Bag on the Washing Line at Kettering Arts Centre. There were lots of reasons for this, chief amongst them being that the place plays a large part in the story. I'm also a keen advocate of the venue because of the quality and variety of acts in brings into the town: music, drama, comedy and art. There were people there on the night who hadn't been in the Arts Centre before, even though for some of them it was right on their doorstep, so in my thank-you speech I encouraged them to come along to an event there and especially to come and see someone they'd never heard of.

On Saturday evening, I followed my own advice. It had already been a long day - taking our turn on an Etsy fair, a bit of promotion for Extinction Rebellion, shopping, trying to ignore the cold weather - so by 7pm all Mr T and I wanted to do was curl up in front of Strictly with a glass of something. However, there was a 'turn' on at the Arts Centre and so off we went. Good decision.

We went to hear A Brief History of Christmas performed by GreenMatthews, who are musicians Chris Green and Sophie Matthews, joined on this occasion by Jude Rees. You can read more about them here. Suffice to say their knowledge of the history of Christmas music and the instruments on which it is played is extraordinary and relayed with humour and energy: and that's before I say anything about their musicianship. They are on tour and if they're coming anywhere near you I recommend you go along.

The point, though, is that if you only listen to music you know, buy tickets for comedians you've seen on TV or read books by authors you've read before - hell, if you never speak to a stranger! - you could miss out on something fabulous. We're really glad we took the plunge on Saturday.

Onwards!

Programme from yesterday's show

It's all been said elsewhere: 2016 was rubbish, but 2017 will be better, so let's get started.

We've taken down the Christmas tree today and it feels as though the house has heaved a sigh of relief that everything is back in the right place. We're still on holiday, though, for another couple of days and there's Baileys and shortbread that need our attention.

I have mentioned before that I don't do New Year resolutions, but I do like to pick a word to bear in mind - a sankalpa, or intention, as we call it in yoga. This year I'm going with kindness, following on from the advent calendar I had on this theme. I think it did me good and I'm planning to keep it up, if I can. You can join in here.

In other news, there was excitement at the Royal Theatre in Northampton yesterday when in true 42 Street style one of the lead actors had been taken ill in the morning and a local actor (Jamal something, I think) was roped in at the 11th hour to take his place. He did the show script in hand, but made an excellent job and I think the book was more of a security blanket than a necessity. He got a huge round of applause at the end.

Finally, I wonder if Prince Charles is polishing his orb and sceptre. Get well soon, ma'am.

Nearly there

The papers and the internet are awash at the moment with words of wisdom on why Christmas is so awful: the queues, the excess, Black Friday, Cyber Monday and new kid on the block Panic Saturday. Just as much has been written about why Christmas is brilliant: the giving and receiving of gifts, the socialising and the spiritual aspects.

I have sympathy with elements of both camps. I hate cooking, for instance, but I love a well-heeled mince pie, and I don’t enjoy shopping but love wrapping presents. Then, of course, there is ample opportunity for one of my favourite pastimes: writing lists.

But one of the best things about the festive season is that we have implicit permission to do things that we don’t do at any other time of the year – and I don’t only mean kissing secret crushes under the mistletoe. For me, it means ignoring the clock, sleeping until I wake and going to bed when I’m tired; and eating when I’m hungry, whether or not it is an official mealtime. It means watching cheesy films and TV specials without feeling guilty; playing boardgames and cards with my children, even though they’re both in their twenties, just because it’s fun and no one has to worry about being cool at Christmas; and putting our heads together over a jumbo crossword or 1,000-piece jigsaw. I’m talking about reading and listening to the radio, adding to a scrapbook or rediscovering the joys of a colouring book.

Most of all, though, I love being able to sit and do nothing, even if just for an hour or so. At this time of year, instead of rushing around in the bright lights of retail, we should be turning inwards and if not exactly hibernating at least slowing down and making time for reflection and contemplation.

Oh, and for Quality Street.

Neither offender nor offended be

Many of us are in the midst of preparing Christmas logistics. May I throw something into the mix, please?

Resolve not to be offended if your plans do not meet the expectations of your nearest and dearest (and others to whom you feel you owe festive duties). If they don't want to come to your house, that doesn't mean they don't trust your cooking or that they hate your children or your dog. It simply means they have other plans.

If folk insist on seeing you when, deep down, you'd rather they didn't, be glad that you can make them happy. It's just possible you'll miss them when they're gone.

Capra's It's A Wonderful Life

If people take offence at what you have planned, let them. It's not your problem. You can control your own response to circumstances, but not that of others.

Follow Utilitarianism's Greatest Happiness Principle: take the course of action that brings happiness to the greatest number of people.

I thank you.

Ho, ho, ho

Christmas Day won’t be the same for us this year. There will be an empty seat at the dinner table where my son used to sit. Oh, don’t worry, he hasn’t died; he’s working at the Harvester. 

I knew this time would come. This isn’t the first December he has been working there, but until this year he’s always managed to negotiate himself the time off. On paper, of course, he’s the best person to work during the festivities. He’s single with no one to answer to, whereas some of his colleagues are married with children and complicated family situations. But for some reason his boss hasn’t taken my feelings into account. No, no, that’s selfish. I don’t want to be THAT MOTHER, the one who majors in emotional blackmail and puts pressure on her offspring.

If you’d asked me, I would have said we weren’t a particularly traditional family, and yet I now see that we have been following the same routine every Christmas for quite a few years, albeit keeping things age appropriate. There is the annual debate about when to put up the tree, for instance. I come from a family who would decorate the weekend before Christmas and take it all down again on Twelfth Night, but I’m married to a man whose way is to put it up much earlier than that and leave it only until New Year’s Eve. We compromise, one way or another, on the date, but always have a glass of something to accompany the task while The Muppet Christmas Carol or, if we’re feeling mawkish, It’s a Wonderful Life plays on TV in the background. That didn’t happen this year and it felt odd not to do it. After dinner on Christmas Eve we open one present each – something small and not from an immediate family member. I don’t know if that will happen this year either, because with number one son missing it won’t be the same. 

So we’re doing things a bit different this time and I’m trying to be cool about it. I’m a yoga teacher, for goodness sake, so I must be generous spirited and release my attachment to routine. I must be flexible, open-hearted and open-minded. Things change, we adapt, we move on.

Even so, I wonder if I can get away with leaving out a sherry and mince pie for Santa?

Season’s greetings to you all.

A hint of humbug?

Is the whole world losing its senses? I mean, I know it’s Christmas in a couple of weeks’ time and we all tend to act a little oddly at this time of year, but what is it about the whiff of pine needles that makes people lose all sense of proportion? I've just visited a local self-styled emporium, filled with seasonal wonders in the form of decorations, gifts, festive tableware and candles. And then there was the food.

Christmas Goose by Jan Pashley Art Print - WorldGallery.co.uk

Displayed amid the handmade chutney and nets of walnuts was a tower of goose fat, which as any self-respecting modern cook knows is THE essential ingredient for roasting potatoes. Anything else simply won’t do. (Politeness prevents me from expressing my views on this.) 

Incredible though it seems, a 300g jar of this precious commodity was priced at £4.59. 

That’s £15.30 a kilogram. 

For fat.  

That’s just daft.

Seasonal flavour

Life's too short...

Food does not feature high on my list of priorities. Yes, I like to eat good food, but going out for a meal holds no special appeal other than that it provides an opportunity to meet with friends for a good old natter. I like my dishes to be tasty, nutritious and good value, but faffing about with jus and reductions is, to my mind, a complete waste of time.

So I’m not reading all the advice that is already forthcoming on how to make stuffing balls, create filo parcels or decorate cupcakes with greengrass icing for that perfect edible Christmas tree.

My one major concession to the mythical homemade Christmas is mincemeat and, if I’m honest, it’s my husband who makes it, not me. I’m allowed to join in with the peeling, slicing and dicing of the apples, but measuring and mixing the other ingredients, including, like Colonel Sanders, his own secret blend of spices, is strictly his domain. And very good at it he is, too. All this takes place in October, when the apple harvest is in full swing. He makes a huge vat of the stuff, which he leaves to mature in a cool, dark corner of the house, occasionally stirring and tasting it, perhaps tweaking the flavour slightly. Eventually it's ready to be transferred into jars.

(At this point I should mention a small detail: if you put cold mincemeat into hot sterilised jars and seal them immediately the mixture will expand and seep out through the lids to create an immovable sticky mess. Don’t ask me how I know: just trust me on this.)

Then, my husband will put into practice all his years of bakery training to create the lightest pastry ever to grace the palate and produce the finest batch of mincepies in the land. The first few dozen for this year are in the oven as I write, and the heavenly smell is driving me crazy.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Happy Christmas, work is over

I taught my last yoga class of the year last night: a one-to-one session with a lovely lady I’d never met before but with whom I felt an instant rapport. Actually, it wasn’t so much a lesson as a sharing session, and we swapped ideas on various approaches to the postures we were working with. Great stuff.

My own classes this week have been working through a Christmas Nativity sequence, based on a lesson posted online by Anne Vincent. It seemed to go well – although I’ll admit it was a bit contrived in places. Yes there is a Camel posture, which fitted the Wise Men well, but when they arrived at Herod’s palace they found him on a Chair – if there is a Throne posture, I’ve never heard of it!

My Tuesday class is held in an upstairs room in a church and we are always accompanied for a least part of the session by music floating up from the main room below where the regular ladies’ group meets. This week they were having a carol concert, and as we lay down to relax they struck up with ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’. Suited the mood perfectly – and makes up for a couple of weeks ago when the speaker was taking them through his recent travels and at one point his PowerPoint slides were accompanied by Madness’s ‘I’ve been driving in my car’. 

Meanwhile in my ‘other’ life, I’ve just heard that a book review of mine will be published early next year, which is nice.

I’m going to try very hard not to switch on my computer for the next week. Merry Christmas, one and all – especially to my new blogosphere buddies.

Om shanti.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas

We had the big Christmas Lights Switch-on on Thursday, launched by Neil and Christine Hamilton, stars of this year’s pantomime. Joe’s band The Divisional were there to do a couple of songs, which was, he said, an interesting experience. He’s played outdoors before, but never in such cold. 

Then this morning I’ve been carol singing in the library (not just me: that would be weird. I was with some friends from the choir I belong to) and then on the church steps in the town centre. I say on the steps advisedly. Apparently there was a HUGE form to fill in if we wanted to stand on the pavement. I’m sure there’s a very good reason for this (sigh).

This mini performance was a nice warm-up for our forthcoming concert in two weeks’ time. We sang out loud and proud, notwithstanding the enthusiastic accordion duo across the way who were determined not to be drowned out – and as the final notes of our plucky sopranos’ descant faded away, strains of ‘The Birdy Song’ could clearly be heard above the shoppers’ applause. We laughed: 'tis, after all, the season to be jolly.