Booze, Dickens, and a Rudi Juliani approach to Angels

Aha! I was feeling guilty about not posting while I was cleaning out my old craptop - you remember, the one with the pull-start and nasty habit of backfiring in an alarming way like the car in Uncle Buck. And I found an old post that for some reason I never pressed the 'publish' button for. There was probably a reason for this - some horror story in the media about someone choking to death on a scrap of tinsel or something - and I judged it inappropriate. But what better time could there be to publish a Christmas post than in the middle of July? Happy holidays, everyone!

I thought I'd send you an image of seasonal bounty this year, instead of tiresome plastic snow and moonlighting porn stars in Santa suits. For the purposes of last night's meal, celeriac, carrots, tiny garlic, parsley, onions and jerusalem artichokes. There could have been parsnips too, but they wouldn't fit in the basket. In 2007 Witchypoo complained about the monster parsnips (they can top 1kg each) and asked me to grow smaller ones, so this year I halved the planting distance. The result? Why, twice as many giant parsnips, of course. They just can't help themselves in our light, sandy soil. Any suggestions?

I thought about posting a snowy scene, really I did – but it's just not realistic here in the UK. Dickens waffled on about snow at Christmas because when he was in his prime Britain had several decades of really cold weather, but these days Britain at Yule is not deep and crisp and even – it's damp and misty and, if you watch daytime TV, shallow.

I thought about angels too, but I'm afraid that I have a zero tolerance approach to angels in force this year because, frankly, they're everywhere. Someone who shall remain nameless sent Number Two Son a card containing sundry bits of metallized Yuletide confetti. He discarded all but eight silvery angels, which he proclaimed 'cute' and positioned in strategic positions all over the house. They are moved to new locations every twenty minutes, like Iraqui SCUD launchers in the first Gulf War, ready to be discovered afresh. Finding an angel on my pillow when I lay down at night was charming at first, but it has worn a bit thin now. I think I really fell out of love with the idea a few days ago when, having fretted and fidgeted for a few hours at work, I found a jagged little seraphim in my briefs. Fa la la la la, la-la la la. Since then I'm sure that I've thrown at least two dozen of the damned things out - but I'm still finding them.

So no snow, no angels and, for obvious reasons, absolutely no babies in feeding troughs. The Bleedin' Cats are making sure that any mice who even think of stirring on the night before Christmas are dealt with promptly*. On the plus side...

• Holly and ivy: Check. These line the interior shutters so that they can't be opened again until Twelfth Night, which gets my vote.
• Open fire: Check, but we're burning old construction materials at the moment so the fire has developed a distressing tendency to spit out red-hot nails at random intervals. Still, the sense of danger does add to the festive excitement.
• Chestnuts: Check, although they don't tend to last until Yule so they're already bottled in light vanilla syrup. Good in pies, but messy to roast.
• Figgy pudding: It can never be ruled out, even if Witchypoo does complain bitterly about the seeds getting stuck in her teeth.
• Stars: Check. One to go on the tree, assorted glow-in-the-dark ones upstairs, and no doubt about a hundred metallic ones ready to go when N2S finally runs out of angels.
• Rosy-cheeked children: At least one, complete with gap-toothed smile. Actually, I think that might account for the rosy cheeks as well, unless he's been at the Nurse MacReadie's cough syrup again.
• Christmas spirit: Check, check, checkedy-check check. I rose at 6am a couple of days ago to do the supermarket portion of the Yuletide shopping and, as I whiled away the merry hours at the checkout, asked myself 'Would a stranger looking into my basket have any idea that I'm a homesteader?' - and then I looked into the basket myself and thought 'No – they'd just think I was an alcoholic'.

...oh, all right then. Ho, ho, ho everyone.




*Or at least brought into the house to hide in my shoes, as last night.