Merry Christmas!

Christmas Day. Never quite how you imagine it’s going to be, is it? 

I eschewed turkey for venison this year. We were going for belly pork, which slow roasted in a bbq rub is a favourite in our household, but by the time I got round to do THE shop, it wasn’t an option, so, “Why not?” I reasoned, and went for the deer option. 

I grew up working class in the 1950’s, and venison, other than poached, would have been unobtainable in my world.  Chicken was so expensive, it was a once-a-year Christmas treat, and even today,  it has a special place in heart and memory, but my husband is tired of it. I have never liked turkey. 

“Cook from frozen 1hr 45 mins at 350F” No problem, except, yes, a problem: the joint was still raw. The stuffing, roast potatoes, mashed potatoes, Brussels sprouts carrots and broccoli were all cooked, but the meat course wasn’t, so dinner arrived, all vastly overcooked an hour late,  and the meat so tough my husband had to put his teeth in to eat it. 

However as the two of us had made good use of the extra hour by getting sozzled on homemade damson  gin and Prosecco, we were both very chilled about it. My signature mushroom and garlic sauce was a hit, and covered a multitude of culinary sins with very little effort. 

The twelve month matured Christmas pudding went down well with Ben and Jerry’s Karamel Sutra Icecream. We usually have crème anglaise with it, but unfortunately one of us had forgotten to get milk in, so it was off the menu this year. 

We settled in front of the Christmas Tree to watch a movie: Jim Carey’s “A Christmas Carol,” because as Tom Lehrer once sang: “Even though the prospect sickens … dum de dum de dum … Drag  out the Dickens. “ I’ll post a link, if you haven’t met Tom before, you’ll love him. 

It’s late-ish   now, we’re stuffed and sleepy, so head for bed. Just before dozing off one of us remembers we’ve forgotten to open our presents. Oh well. There’s always tomorrow. 

Oh! Before O go, I should mention the parsnips. They were the last straw for the air-fryer. Never mind, I’m treating myself to a new one. My husband said,” Call it a belated Christmas present.” I gave him gloves. 

https://open.spotify.com/track/4uarCMpjlIooBsKVsB7pN1?si=6jPaUqxXQtmCQT80s-EoEkA

My Covid

0n the 24th March 2020, I received this message :

GOV.UK CORONAVIRUS ALERT New rules in force now: you must stay at home. More info & exemptions at gov.uk/coronavirus Stay at home. Protect the NHS. Save lives.

I knew it was coming, of course. Sometime in December 2019, rumours were emerging of a novel virus, maybe an accidental release from a biowarfare lab, maybe a bat virus gone rogue: who knew then? (Who knows now? ) people were dying, it was spreading, who knew that Christmas 2019 would,  for millions,  be their last? 

On being ordered to stay home, I set myself a few tasks: to blog daily (I didn’t) to keep in close virtual touch with family and friends, which I did, and to light a candle at dusk every evening at sunset. That I kept up for two years.

I remember being surprised at my parents’ generation often describing “the war years,” as the happiest of their lives. I’m not going to claim THAT, but I gained a sense of how that might be. Every day came awash with an extra sense of how good it was to be alive. There  was a coming together ( at a distance ) of people in the pursuit of a common aim: staying alive.   In fact the nationwide Thursday night cheering for the NHS was the first time I actually met many of my neighbours. We were kinder to one other, more helpful: it was a good time to be alive, primarily because we WERE still alive. 

The U.K. government led by Boris the Toxic Buffoon muddled through, endangering as many lives as it saved. I shall say no more on that topic, sceptics may  tune into the Parliamentary inquiry currently convening and find that out for themselves.  It’s worse than you think. 

I had a mission. March 2020 found me one of only two members  of the Church Council under 70 - thus able to leave home for one of the  few permitted activities: opening the church. 

The sanctuary was cleared as only five  ( plastic ) chairs were permitted for the five people allowed in the building for private prayer. Every door and window opened, every chair sanitised after us, free masks on hand, the wearing of which was compulsory. There were lists of attendees with contact numbers, that had to be kept. Thankfully I only needed to use one once: and that was because Dennis picked up an infection at work. 

I had a dedicated team. We scrubbed and cleaned with enthusiasm. We moved furniture in and out as the numbers permitted at Mass increased. We bustled about with a sense of purpose I have a kind of nostalgia for. 

I ran a tight ship. There were no infections. Nobody died.

The rules were strict. When Mass was first permitted, hanging around inside afterwards wasn’t. My best schoolmarm persona emerged as I emptied the church with the imperious command, “No Loitering!” 

We could shop, walk outdoors with members of our household,go to church,  but not sing, “bubble” with one family group. (I cheated, though cautiously didn’t bubble with the same household in a week …) Testing was routine, masking up a way of life. (The discovery of a  pink floral one,  that I sewed from a pattern I found on the internet, prompted this post. “Lest We Forget.” ) 

At its peak Covid infections in the U.K. topped 300,000 a day. I lost count of the death toll. Everyone in my family eventually caught it, though post vaccination, and although  sick for a few days, there are no lasting effects. Or so I believe. 

Covid’s not over. It’s dropped from the news, because thanks to amazing, and timely,  developments in cellular biology, vaccines became astonishingly quickly available, at least for those of us fortunate to live in the west, with a decent healthcare system. 

Eleven months after that text from HMG, on Feb 2nd 2021, I received my first shot. It became safer to venture out. 

During that year of Lockdown, ,  I celebrated both my 70th birthday and my 50th wedding anniversay. There was a brief respite in October 2020 when five people were allowed to gather together. I had a celebration dinner with my daughters and husband,  at The Royal William south of Gloucester. My wedding anniversary we toured our children’s back gardens, and toasted each other at the statutory  distance of 2m. 

I hope and pray never to have to live through another pandemic: though another is an inevitability. 

When the next one comes, I hope the lessons of this one will have been learned. Anyway, one thing for certain, it won’t be me shouting, “No Loitering!” at group of recalcitrant worshippers enjoying their one legal get-together of the week! 

John McGuiness RIP

John, who wishes to be called, “ Skinny,” by the way, died on Wednesday. We, my husband I,, met him when he was living on the streets, but that was a long time ago. 

Skinny was fifty-a-lot, but would have passed for seventy. Living on the streets does that to you. 

I introduced Ray  to Skinny. I’m an evangelist, of sorts, and Ray rolls his eyes at God, so they were well suited. 

Decades ago, Skinny was a hardworking artisan with a family and a job.  Then he was hit by a truck, which took out his right hip, leaving a wound that would never heal. First step to living on the streets:

Bad Luck.

Skinny was not compensated fully for his disability because the truck driver fled the country.  Second step:

Injustice.

After a spell, the drugs given to control the pain, stopped working,. Third step: 

Intolerable pain.

Skinny took to buying opiates off drug dealers. Fourth step:

Addiction. 

This looks like a downward spiral, doesn’t it? It got pretty bad, but Skinny had guts. He got himself help. He helped himself. He managed the addiction, he got off the streets. 

Ray and Skinny developed a relationship and regularly took each other out for breakfast. A couple of times, I joined them. We all gained weight.

Two year ago Skinny was diagnosed with acute kidney failure, a year ago, lung cancer. 

Consequences.

Skinny’s attitude to dying was to ignore it. I think right up to the end, and beyond,  that worked pretty well for him. 

His mum was with him stroking his forehead as he died. I’m glad of that. When I’m back home we’ll have a wake. Just Ray, and her, and me. There was no funeral. 

But there was a ceremony. I took a stone and said Skinny’s name, and blessed it and him:

“John McGuiness, now that you know who you really are, be at peace.”

And I cast it into the water, where it will rest until the end of time. 

Amen.

Dancing Feet

My friend Darlene treated me to wonderful gift today: she drove me into Bellevue for a pedicure. 

My feet were washed, pumiced, massaged and lotioned, my nails given a short, back and sides, emery-boarded, polished and buffed. 

As feet go, they looked amazing, and felt fantastic. 

As I was being primped and pampered, I thought about the places where these very serviceable and extremely reliable feet had walked:

The green hills of the Cotswolds, under the skirts of which I was born: the Welsh and Scottish uplands, the Swiss Alps, the Carpathian Mountsina, African Velt, Hawaiian rainforest, and Sinai Desert.

They have trudged, heavily through rain, and deep snow, plunged into streams, paddled in oceans, slipped down the banks of rivers, and tip-toed in and out of children’s bedrooms. They’ve been there for me, and apart from a spell in orthopaedic boot following a snapped tendon in my right ankle, they’ve never let me down. 

Above all, they have danced! The Lancers at speech days with school friends, The Dashing White Sergeant with sixth formers at the local public school, out-paced boyfriends at discos, accopanisd family members at parties and weddings, including my own, swayed and turned with Xhosa women in South Africa and with pulsed into sand woth Bedouin in Egypt. 

They once featured in a poem, about that experience:

Here am I, in the Sinai desert, with my dance troupe, at dawn, performing to the music of oud and drums. It is my fifty-first birthday. As I recall the magic of this day, I am reminded of my strength and my resilience and am full of laughter. I hope this comes through in the writing

A Work of Heart

To write this poem, I planted my feet, Strong, bare feet, 

Firmly, in the sand.

I raised my arms, then,

 Dropped them, as I was taught, 

To my shoulders.

Aligning my palms to the strengthening sun, I waited,

Alert, for the words

To drift, or bounce or slide Down,

Down

With the music.

I lifted my head and 

Listened, listening, For the deluge.

Quietly at first...

Trilling over my fingertips 

Snaking down my arms 

Shivering across my shoulders 

Thrumming through my breast 

Shimmying with my hips

Turning Turning Turning

Clapping with my hands 

Stamping with my feet -

The poem came! And

I DANCED.