Blizzard - The Postie Stone, Moffat

The Postie Stone (i)

How exciting it would be to become snowed in when we have our pre-Christmas break at our favourite lodge in Dumfries & Galloway. I think of this every November into December, when we spend a couple of weeks there, wrapped around my birthday, to do some Christmas shopping in the fabulous, privately owned individual shops. In anticipation of having to stay until March, unless a tractor from the farm comes along to rescue us, I take a supply of ‘emergency’ tinned food and packets, and stock up aplenty on arrival.  This time, it nearly happened. It was our last morning, the day we were leaving. Snow was about eight inches deep and still falling thick and fast. A huge mound shaped over and around our car so it looked like an igloo. We never have snow at home, not like this proper ‘build a snowman’ stuff and we stood in awe gazing at the most amazing landscape through the window.

One day, we went to Moffat, an enchanting market town north of Dumfries. We’ve been before and enjoy a stroll along the high street, seeing what the shops have and this visit was pretty with festive lights and shop windows trimmed for Christmas. It was a cold but calm, sunny day and for me, a wander into the Old Graveyard was appealing. John Loudon McAdam, of tarmac fame is buried there, also are the graves of James McGeorge and John Goodfellow. They were enroute to Edinburgh from Dumfries with postal deliveries when they were caught in a blizzard and died. 

The Postie Stone (ii) Detail

Taken from Atlas Obscurer –
“A roadside memorial commemorates the lives of John Goodfellow, the coach driver, and James McGeorge, the coach guard of a mail coach.

The pair were on a mail coach traveling from Dumfries to Edinburgh in February 1831. They became caught in a fierce blizzard which forced them to abandon the coach and set off on foot through the snow to try and deliver the mail and make it to safety.

They took the mailbags and horses but eventually, the men were overcome by the elements and died of exposure near the head of Cross Burn. The horses continued on, eventually reaching a nearby farm which raised the alarm.

The stone was erected in their memory in 1931, a century after the event. The men were laid to rest in the churchyard in nearby Moffat.”

(A full account of this can be found online, titled The Coaching Disaster.)

Such a sad story and I thought of them again as I watched the falling snow on our journey home. All was well until we were driving into Cumbria and coming over Shap. Late afternoon and it was going dark, the snow clouds were low and visibility was poor. The blizzard soon reduced the motorway from three to two lanes and traffic slowed accordingly. We were grateful to arrive home unscathed because soon after we heard about abandoned cars in Cumbria and jack-knifed wagons on the M6.

Being snowed in at the lodge would have been cosy, though, in my fantasy world.

 During my childhood, age 8 to 9, we lived in Padfield, near Glossop in what became one of dad’s favourite pubs and B&B to manage. We got snowed in, which still happens up there. The village was cut off for days and I remember my mum helping the neighbours out with food where she could.  School stayed open, which meant the fun of snowball fights on the walk down and up again. All the teachers – there was only four of them – lived near the school so it wasn’t likely to be closed and we were allowed to play out in the snow. Times have changed. If the travel news should mention The Snake Pass or Woodhead Road being closed due to snow I think ‘That’s Padfield cut off, then’. Fond memories.

Leaving the Lodge

Emily Bronte passed away on this day in 1848. This is one of her poems. It reminds me of Wuthering Heights as I imagine a blizzard over the moors.

The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me
And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow,
The storm is fast descending
And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me;
I will not, cannot go.

             Emily Jane Bronte 1818 – 1848

Thanks for reading. A Merry Christmas to all, Pam x                                        

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Challenge - Defensive Driving

For almost two years now, everyday life has brought challenges. As Covid 19 and all variants took over and made us re-think how we do things and consider consequences, we have had to do our best to look after ourselves and each other, and abide by ever-changing rules, however bonkers they might be. I think we expected to be back to normal long before now, but here we are, plodding on after a second careful Christmas, with open windows on a cold day and a festive line in face masks.

A few short weeks ago, though it feels like months, we were enjoying a pre-Christmas extended break in Dumfries and Galloway. I love the organisation there. Face masks everywhere, track and trace details requested in every café and restaurant and no one makes a fuss – apart from one gentleman in Moffat, who was so rude to shop staff, he made me think I was in my home town for one awful moment. What is it with some people? Retail staff, in fact, all staff are challenged enough. During our stay, there was a problem which gave me a bigger challenge than I could have imagined. My husband developed a non-urgent medical issue, which, being sensible meant that he mustn’t drive. Over to me, gulp.

I’ve been driving for almost fifty years, but with no use – or parking space – for my own car, I was more than happy for my sister to use it as her own for as long as she needed it. My husband did the driving, I was always the passenger, as I liked to be. Driving isn’t my favourite thing but I had no choice. I had to educate myself with the finer points of his car and pop the car keys in my bag. I’m still not sure if I’d been promoted or punished for something. Anyway, onward and upward, I had to quickly overcome any worries and get on with it. There are worse things, I think. It is a lovely car. Bigger than my (4^th) Nissan Micra, which now belongs to my brother-in-law in Scotland. And it is automatic so it almost drives itself, which is good for me because there are so many hazards to look out for, especially now I am home and have to cope with traffic lights, roundabouts and things in the way.

The second week of our time in Scotland, I gained more confidence every day. Up and down the A75, the main road to all the places we wanted to go. I was unfazed by the narrow roads in small towns, or the country lanes on the Mull of Galloway. I refused to think about the journey home, the dreaded M6 and the ultimate challenge.

It was as bad as I expected, too busy, too fast and the sun in my eyes all the way home. I rose to the task and brought us home safely. No lunch stop at Gretna Gateway. No stopping at all until buying groceries at our Tesco. I was glad when that particular ordeal was over but another was about to begin. Driving locally is more of a nightmare than a challenge. I’m in this for the long term.

My Haiku,

Don't ask how we got
Under the rhododendron
A sad afternoon.

Reality check
The car keys are passed to me,
Am I promoted?

Confidence regained
In Kirkcudbright's easy streets
Before the drive home.

That fearful M6,
Cumbrian snowy landscape
Then soon we are home.

Now I've got to drive
Like I know where I'm going
In this messy town

With its silly roads
And its awkward roundabouts
And traffic filters

And pointless one-way,
I can rise to the challenge.
Defensive driving.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Expectation - Uncertain Times

 

It is not quite Epiphany but the Christmas tree, cards and all the trimmings have been taken down and packed away. There was an element of sadness. I didn’t feel ready to remove everything. I was being practical and fitting in other plans. Also, I was missing my little helpers who had made the task a joyful one last year and the year before. Just the other day my eldest grandson asked if he could help to put the tree away. I told him he could if he was here when the time came, but he was at school yesterday when I was unwinding the strings of beads, trying to prevent them getting tangled. I felt a bit guilty. I’d given him the expectation of being involved. Now, if the subject arises, I’ll be using ‘lockdown’ as an excuse. He’ll already be gutted at his beloved school taken from him again.

I began last year, 2020, with lots of expectations and, same as everyone, not a clue of what was coming to take it all away from me. There would be our regular visits to Dumfries and Galloway with trips to family in Troon. We looked forward to going to the Channel Islands for our 30^th wedding anniversary. I was retiring from work. There would be more travelling and lots of time to spend with our four grandchildren. Covid 19 changed all our lives and continues to do so.

I feel safe at home and it’s where I like to be. One thing I enjoy is watching all Blackpool F.C. matches on the big TV on the back room wall, from the comfort of the squashy sofa. It’s great to settle down with a hot coffee and the anticipation and expectation of a thrilling match ending in a great result. When that happens I hope our neighbours don’t mind the cheering and applause. I miss the atmosphere of the football ground, I miss the company of the fans who sit around us, the chats and catch-ups. They will be like us, watching from home. And, sitting in comfort in the warmth, I wonder how on earth I’d cope in the stadium on a freezing match day. I’ve gone soft. I have no expectation of getting back into the ground this season, but if we can, I’ll be there.

This year I have no New Year resolutions, except to write more of my own poetry but I haven't set off on that yet. Expectation is to receive the Covid vaccine when my turn comes up and retire from work at some point. If I keep my expectations realistic, there will be less disappointment.

Here's a Thomas Hardy poem,

Expectation and Experience

“I had a holiday once,” said the woman –
Her name I did not know –
“And I thought that where I’d like to go,
Of all the places for being jolly,
And getting rid of melancholy,
Would be a good, big fair:
And I went. And it rained in torrents, drenching
Every horse, and sheep, and yeoman,
And my shoulders, face and hair;
And I found that I was the single woman
In the field – and looked quite odd there!
Everything was spirit-quenching:
I crept and stood in the lew of a wall
To think, and could not tell at all
What on earth made me plod there!”

Thomas Hardy  (1840 – 1928)

 Pam

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Christmas..... I Remember..

I can still feel the excitement from Christmases more than sixty years ago when I was a child. I can taste the satsumas from the bowl on the table at my granny’s; hear the crackle of a Quality Street wrapper as the chocolate was revealed - and quickly consumed; smell the cigars distributed to the men by my grandad just once a year. 

As 1950s children we rarely had such feasts as the ones my granny set out on that polished wooden table: dishes full of chocolates and sweets; bowls piled high with oranges and tangerines, grapes and bananas; Turkish Delight in a thin wooden box, icing sugar snowing down on the table as we sneaked out a sweet jelly cube; nuts with a special nutcracker that you had to squeeze as hard as your little hands could manage, before passing it to dad or uncle to do the job properly. If they were very clever they could produce a nut, perfectly whole and unscathed. 

At home, we were never allowed to help ourselves to food, we always had to ask. Here, at granny’s on Christmas Day we were encouraged to dip into the bowls and fill our glasses with fizzy pop (something else that only appeared on special occasions).  It was always a magical day. My cousins had travelled, with my aunt and uncle, the eighty miles from Margate (another world to us kids) and were already at granny’s when we arrived. 

Each year Father Christmas appeared at the back window, heavily bearded and hooded, a big black sack over his shoulder. There was great excitement while one of the adults went outside to let him in. Although we had our suspicions, it took us a few years to actually admit to ourselves and each other that Santa was our dad dressed up for the part. After all, it was strange how dad was never in the room when Father Christmas came in. 

One year the man in red appeared as usual, and knocked on the window to be let in. Sure enough, dad had left the room only minutes before. We children grinned at each other. “It’s only dad,” said my older brother cockily, watching for my younger brother’s reaction. “It’s not!” insisted John, close to tears, while Geoff continued to nod his head and grin. 

Just then, Father Christmas made his entrance and we gathered round the sack. Presents were distributed, and, with a lot of ho ho ho-ing Santa turned to go - just as the door opened and in walked dad. It was sometime later that we discovered my mum had persuaded her brother to call round and act the part. Such was our shock that I think we all had a couple more years of believing after that. 

Each Christmas my brothers and I would ‘do a turn.’ One year I persuaded my little brother to don a headscarf, apron and women’s slippers and act out a monologue (which became a duologue) with me. He told me recently he still remembers the words. The next Christmas it was Charlie Drake’s, ‘I Lost My Mummy,’ with lots of fake crying from the youngest actor, and another year we all mimed to Bernard Cribbins’ ‘Hole in the Ground.’  My older brother’s turn invariably ended with a squirting cigar or something flying through the air at the audience.  I can hear the family’s laughter as clearly as if it were yesterday. 

Sadly, although there will inevitably still be laughter this Christmas, it is one tinged with sadness. It’s the first in sixty six years without my dad (AKA Spamhead), who passed away three weeks ago, and although I’ve not seen him every one of those Christmas Days he’s always been around before or afterwards to receive his presents and accept thanks for the ones bought for us by mum. Over the years we all came to realise that dad didn’t really like presents unless they consisted of food, or vouchers to be exchanged for something edible.  He loved an outing to M&S Food where he would drive mum mad by filling a trolley with Spam (hence his nickname), cheese, ox tongue, prawns and his favourite lobsters.  

I hadn’t got round to buying the voucher before he died, but I had bought extra warm socks for his bad circulation, and an apron to catch the food that always ended up on his jumper. I’m wearing the socks as I type, and my mum tells me he would never have worn the apron: he didn’t believe he spilled a thing. My eldest son tells me he will wear it with pride.

My dad was ninety two, he had a great life, right up to the end, and that makes me happy. He was a lovely dad, granddad and great granddad and he was the best Father Christmas ever. 

I usually write a poem on the week’s theme but today I’d like to pay homage to my lovely dad and post part of the eulogy I read out at his funeral. This was something I wrote for Father’s Day a few years ago, and amended just recently. I’d based it on looking through old photos, which seems even more poignant today. 

Dear Dad,

You are the slim young man with the thick wavy hair, caught forever in the 1940s, strolling with mum along the prom at Margate; you are the proud father of one, two and – whoops – three babies, reluctantly posing against the1950s décor; you are the stressed looking thirty-something, sprung to life in a fading Polaroid, with three grinning teens in ‘60s shades; you are the pale, gaunt figure, with empty eyes, in the grip of a deep depression – knife poised above the Silver Wedding cake; you are the handsome dad, smiling self-consciously at your sons’ weddings, beaming at the congregation as you walk me proudly down the aisle;  you are the relaxed and happy grey-haired man in 70s sweater, gazing fondly at the first of eight grandchildren; you are the proud husband at the end of the century, fifty years married, squinting as the sun makes a sudden break through the clouds, and your family laughs around you; you are the octogenarian magician, mesmerising great-grandchildren; you are the slightly stooping, white haired man, serenading mum on your Diamond Wedding Anniversary, as I wipe away tears; you are the grinning 90 year old, looking down adoringly as you and mum cradle the long awaited twins, nearly but not quite, the last of your nine great grandchildren……

You were my 92 year old dad. I loved you dearly and I always will.  Your favourite daughter, JK xxx

Thanks for reading,  Jill

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Winter Ghosts - Nearly Christmas

Christmas is taking shape. I’ve made the cake, bought some but not all gifts, made food plans and put the tree up. I loved the looks of delight on the faces of my two and a half year old grandson and one and a half year old granddaughter when I showed them the tree and the special things hanging on it. The baby, another grandson, is too young to take any notice yet, but I showed him everything and told him about the star, the angel and mix of baubles that all mean something. They don’t know it, but these beautiful children save me from getting too maudlin when I miss my family.

I’m fortunate to have a wonderful family round me of my own making but I miss my mum, dad, grandparents and all my extended family and friends who are no longer with us. I’m grateful to have grown up in such a family to give me strength of character and confidence to stand and grow alone when I had to. My guardian angels who picked me up when I fell, pointed me in the right direction when I took a wrong turning and stopped me from roaming a rocky path. Christmas brings them all near and even if I’m weeping yet again for what is lost, I’m joyful for the magical memories of Christmases past.

These winter ghosts gather to share in the Christmas of today, surrounding me with the love I grew up with. I hope our dinner is perfect, our company convivial and I wish, as I always do that just one more time, the family I miss could be sitting round the table. My Nanna, still with her pinny on, making sure everyone has everything they want, and my dad checking the wine. Until we meet again.

I will do my best to cook a lovely dinner. We’ll share thoughts and memories, we’ll laugh but not cry.  Someone will raise a toast to those who have passed but with us in spirit. The children will jump at the snapping of crackers and play with the contents then later mess about until they fall asleep, cheeks rosy and hearts full of love. It’s a family circle and I’m Nanna now.

I hope in years to come, my children and grandchildren will look back with fondness on memories of their own.

I have this poem in a frame and bring it out every Christmas.

Christmas Memories by Patience Strong.

Christmas memories stir the waters of the well of thought-
And reflect the best of what the passing years have brought…
Past and present mingle when we hear the Christmas chimes.
Names come back as we recall good things and happy times.
 

 

The photos are copied from my late father's colour slide collection. I apologise for the poor quality. It's a work in progress.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Years May Come, Years May Go

Years may come, years may go and 2016, not over yet, hasn’t had a dull moment.  World politics, celebrity deaths, and the Great British Bake Off have made headlines and filled social media, bringing out the best and the worst in people. This is society.

A mish-mash of loud, persuasive opinions from educated yet ill-mannered, rude people filled our TV screens for months. Has everyone voted for whatever, now? Is it safe to come out of hiding?

I have been saddened at the passing of so many talented people. At least their work remains with us and will continue to bring joy.

I bake. Not as much as I would like to as time doesn’t allow, but I can rustle up an acceptable Victoria sponge, cup-cakes, biscuits and recently my perfect, sherry soaked Christmas cake. The Great British Bake Off is of no interest to me at all. Sorry to offend. I’m sure Mary Berry is a lovely lady who won’t mind in the least that it’s not to my taste.

On a personal level, this year brought joy when, on the 1st July, our granddaughter made an early arrival. Overwhelmed with emotion, my first sight of her was through tears I couldn’t hold back, looking into her incubator. Perfect and beautiful. Tiny fingers and tiny toes, though not a tiny baby, she weighed over six pounds. My son opened the ‘port-hole’ for me to touch her. Gently, I stroked her velvety, warm skin. I touched her hand and felt her finger pressing mine.

         “I’m Nanna Pam,” I whispered. “I love you.”
     We are thankful for the care and dedication of everyone in the SCBU. They are a remarkable      team who looked after our granddaughter and her parents. She’s a gorgeous baby, nearly six months old with a beautiful smile.
      

I was delighted to meet John Lodge of the Moody Blues. He’s a very friendly, down-to earth person. I’m incredibly lucky. Not everyone gets to meet their favourite rock star.

      

It’s been wonderful to have long weekends and breaks, Liverpool, Shropshire and the Peak District as well as longer holidays relaxing in Dumfries & Galloway. I’m always thankful for the opportunity and look forward to more visits next year.

      

Christmas has been a lovely family time. It really began in early December when we enjoyed the visit of family we don’t get to see as often as we’d like. It was so good to catch up in person with each other’s lives. The last few days have been filled with those who are nearby, just popping in or having a meal, those special moments, making memories, sharing laughter, of being together and remembering friends and family who passed away.

      

A poem for Christmas time:

    
     From Our Happy Home by Louisa May Alcott

From our happy home

Through the world we roam

One week in all the year,

Making winter spring

With the joy we bring

For Christmas-tide is here. 

Now the eastern star

Shines from afar

To light the poorest home;

Hearts warmer grow,

Gifts freely flow,

For Christmas-tide has come. 

Now gay trees rise

Before young eyes,

Abloom with tempting cheer;

Blithe voices sing,

And blithe bells ring,

For Christmas-tide is here. 

Oh, happy chime,

Oh, blessed time,

That draws us all so near!

‘Welcome, dear day,’

All creatures say,

For Christmas-tide is here. 

If you have a minute or two before the New Year arrives, go on YouTube and listen to The Irish Rovers singing ‘Years May Come, Years May Go’ or Herman’s Hermits if you prefer. 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

 

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Birds of a feather: A family gathering.

My family are far and wide, all over the globe now.  My eldest brother lives in Somerset and his two boys have settled in London and Halifax Nova Scotia.  My sister and her husband flit from the Isle of Man to Spain.  Their daughter is sharing a house with friends in the Midlands but her sons live fairly close to me. My own, grown-up children,  have stayed close to home, at least  for now.

Last year, we shared Christmas Day with my sister's brood, for the first time in many years.  Traditional lunch, with all the trimmings in an idyllic country cottage and then watching  Frozen with her Grandchildren. My nephew brought along his Husky puppy. Our Mum fell asleep by the roaring fire. It was a perfect day. One to remember and to treasure forever.

After I divorced, Christmas became a shared out event. The children usually spent Christmas Day with me and then a few days with their father's family.  I would work over what is now known as Twixmas.  It staved off the emptiness in my home and allowed me to save extra leave for days when they might be off school poorly. It was a practical solution. 

One year we had snow on Christmas Day: A rarity in Blackpool, noted for wet windy winters. There are a few trees in my garden; a tall sycamore, an old apple and a hawthorn that was still heavily laden with berries. As we were pulling our crackers, I saw a Great Spotted Woodpecker sitting in the apple tree. A most prestigious event.

We usually have a fine gathering of birds over the winter months; blue tits, great tits, chaffinches, robins and blackbirds, (I pile up all the windfall apples and they feast on them). I love to see groups of tiny long-tailed tits arrive.  They each weigh only half an once and roost together in a large fluffy ball to keep warm, tails hanging downwards. In really cold weather, birds of different species, (even usually territorial birds), will all huddle together in a warm,dry, south-facing nest box. The mere thought of such a convivial gathering makes me happy.

A Winter’s Tail

On a bright and bluish Boxing Day,

the house is quiet,
the children away.
I am sitting alone

in the peace and the calm,

my face to the window,

reflected warm. 

 

I gaze to the garden,

through frosted glass,

my thoughts drift off
and tears stream down

for time long lost,

for love that passed.

Then I stop to peer  

at a flash of light,

of green and yellow,

birds in flight,

with soft black caps and bold striped chest.

The acrobats are back to their nest.

Dashing and dancing

from limb to limb

of the apple tree,

with its mouldy trim.

Swinging from string on the coconut

to taste sweet suet and butternut.

Such delight to my wondering eyes appears,

it makes my smile reach to my ears. 

 

Have a wonderful Christmas everyone.  Thanks for reading.  Adele 

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Beatlemania Was Born In Blackpool

The Beatles 'arrived' when I was nine and nothing would ever be quite the same again. They permeated our young lives and literally became the soundtrack to my adolescence. Christmases were always awash with fabulous Beatle music (1963 With The Beatles, 1964 Beatles For Sale, 1965 Rubber Soul). We thrilled to their sound on transistors, radiograms and TV specials.

Tennis rackets became guitars, biscuit tins became drums (except no one really wanted to be Ringo) and the girls next door became groupies as we mimed to John, Paul, George and Ringo's unprecedented string of number one hits. In the playground there were mock battles between Beatles fans, Searchers supporters and those deluded few who thought the Dave Clark Five were going to take over the world. We were still all wearing short trousers - even in winter. They seemed such innocent and exciting times....
 

Years later, Beatles For Sale was the de rigeur LP (and then CD) of choice to be played during the annual decorating of the Christmas tree, and so the Beatles became not just part of my DNA but indelibly part of my daughters' as well... and Revolver remains my favourite album of all time.
 

Today's poem is one that I've just written as part of a project for Blackpool's Imperial Hotel, about some of its most famous guests and this being Christmas week, what better time to give it an airing?
 

This iconic image of The Beatles in Blackpool was taken on the roof of the Opera House by photographer Peter Emmett.

Beatlemania!

Beatlemania was born in Blackpool

back in the summer of sixty-three.

The fab four rocked the town by the sea

no fewer than eight times in that giddy year,

playing Queens Theatre, the Opera House and ABC

from balmy July to sultry September,

each show a performance to remember.

None more so than their first appearance

at the Queens - once Feldman’s - on Bank Hey Street

(now a cut-price department store)

when four thousand frenzied but ticketless fans

besieged and surrounded the sold-out venue,

completely blocking all of its doors

so that the mops

had to be smuggled in across rooftops –

the first of many a Hard Day’s Night. 

On stage their fringes shook in crazy joy,

their music, soundtrack of our unshackling,

hardly heard above the noise

of screaming girls in pheromone flow.

It was mayhem of the most wondrous kind…

…and later in Imperial pomp

the boys sipped scotch and coke to unwind,

cloistered in their hotel suite

figuring the chords to I Feel Fine. 

But the Fab Four did so much more

than light up Blackpool –

they were about to turn on a generation!

From Love Me Do to Love You To,

the Beatles soon commanded every station.

A cultural phenomenon

unparalleled in modern times,

these four young men enthralled a nation

eager to escape our post-war blues.

They switched the points -

and in doing so

allowed us to forgo

destination Squaresville
in favour of a Magical Mystery Tour.

Thanks for reading. Have a rocking New Year Beatlemaniacs everywhere, S :-)

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Comfort and Joy?

No doubt about it – Christmas starts earlier each year. No, not that one – not unsleeping capitalism’s brazen attempts to part us from our festive cash as early as August – I mean real Christmas, the one people create for themselves in their own homes. Mid-December used to be the signal for trees aloft, lights ablazing. In recent years this has defaulted to 1^st December as the first decent time to decorate the house. This year it seemed as if people couldn’t wait that long to dispel the uncertainty, misery, anxiety of life that is the lot of so many and sparkly trees were quite commonplace as you walked the streets in mid-November.

It’s a very sad form of escapism, I think.  When reality is so cruel and awful, it’s very tempting to displace it by anticipating the brief (usually) interlude of Christmas. It’s a time when people are kinder to each other, smile more, seem a little more tolerant. Who wouldn’t want more of that and for a longer period? But, as it is such a special time, is there not a danger of dissipating its enjoyment and attraction by artificially prolonging it? The nature of escapism is that it provides a short-term escape from an unpalatable reality – but return to reality is inevitable. It might be better to fight to change the reality, rather than decking the halls with boughs of holly in November.

Apropos of nothing, really, here’s a piece I wrote about my childhood Christmases. On reflection, it is relevant as an instance of escapism.

The Most Magical Day of the Year

Every day of every year was the same, in hindsight. We were a poor family, like everyone we knew. There were no incidental treats at all, ever. There was hand to mouth living, waiting for payday, every week, every month, every year.

Except one day. Christmas Day.

With the considerable assistance of Provident checks, which had to be repaid over the whole of the following year, my parents somehow managed to transform our lives completely and utterly for one day of magic. I can never forget the excitement and anticipation of the run up to Christmas, which reached a crescendo on Christmas Eve. The kitchen, always full of good, tasty (but cheap) food to sustain the six of us, was groaning under the weight of the feast to come. Exciting things like mince pies had been appearing for a few days; tangerines tantalized; the smell of Christmas cakes in the oven for hours gave a hint of the glories to come; a huge turkey was resting in the larder; the clove-scented aroma of bread pudding pervaded the air; tins of sweets, Cheese Footballs and Twiglets were hidden away, to make a glorious appearance on Christmas morning; a bottle of Harveys Bristol Cream stood proudly in the larder, ready for the festivities to begin.

We four children were despatched to bed as soon as possible, for my poor exhausted parents to make the colossal preparations for the next day. Sleep was practically impossible because of the excited frenzy and was short-lived when it came. Whoever woke first edged nervously to the foot of their bed to check if He Had Been. Of course he had! Word travelled fast round our bedrooms and soon we were all up, my poor parents, who had only just gone to bed, swept along by an unstoppable tide of excitement.

Down we all went, dragging our bulging pillowcases behind us. The turkey had been left in the oven to cook overnight. The coal fire, the only source of heat in the entire house, had been banked up so that no-one had to light it on Christmas morning. And the living room soon was literally covered with wrapping paper as we ripped the covers off present after present after present. It is no exaggeration to say that we each received every single thing that we wanted, having carefully crafted long letters for Father Christmas in November, based on completely self-indulgent wish-lists. And for one day of the year, my parents were spared the misery of the hand to mouth existence they endured every other day as they basked in the delight they had created for their children.

I’ll never forget those Christmases. I can still see that room, filled with the sheer warmth and happiness of six people, enjoying together a piece of magic in their lives.

It didn’t even end the fateful year when I found out for myself that there was no Father Christmas. I was eleven and when I woke up to detect with blinking eyes the ethereal spectre of a bike at the foot of my bed, glittering in the darkness, I reasoned that Father Christmas couldn’t possibly have got down the chimney with that. Rationality triumphed over magic. I never told the others though.

Thank you for reading,

Sheilagh

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On Christmas Morning - a poem

On Christmas morning

On the street
Children with smiling faces greet
As Santa makes his way back home
To calculate his Wonga loan

The television's got it wrong
Old film repeats, nothing else on
So just for once, this time each year
The air rings with voices and festive cheer

As in houses the families come together
The men drink beer, the women gather
In kitchens, round a roasting beast
That bubbles, ready for the feast

The kids on bikes begin to tire,
They come and warm up by the fire
And long before anyone starts a tiff
There's a pile discovered of unopened gifts

Then we eat and we sleep as we play at the glutton
On the birthday of someone we've all long forgotten
But we carry it on, we all share the same views
Ring the bells, we're all here, and that is the news!



Thanks for reading, happy new year everyone.

S

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Belated Greetings

 by Ashley Lister

I'm typing this direct into blogger. I'm really short on time this week having bitten off more than I can chew (or promised to write more than I can physically write). Instead of blogging properly, assume I'm overdosing on mince pies and turkey sandwiches.

Or imagine I'm the comedy genius who wrote the genius tweet you see below.

Hopefully I'll have more next week but there's little I can say about the season of capitalism without coming across as irreligious, grumpy or plain mean-spirited. I do hope you're all enjoying the festivities and if you really get pleasure from seeing pure delight splashed across the face of young children at this time of year, perhaps your name ought to be on a register ;-)

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I'm no Scrooge, but .....

I don't know if it's just me, but to me Christmas isn't the same anymore.  Perhaps it's because I've grown up, and lets face it, Christmas is all about the kids isn't it?  Perhaps it is because I now live in Blackpool (where someone commented the other day: "Even Santa has to take Uppers to deliver his presents to Blackpool!")?But yes, when I was a nipper, it was so much better than it is today.  In the run up to Christmas, a 4 x 4 pulling a trailer with a Sleigh on the back, would slowly drive around the village streets, with Father Christmas waving to the Children as he passed by.  His elf's or helpers, would walk alongside handing out sweets.  It also snowed nearly every year over in York. Sat in a Vale, it has some beautiful weather, whereas over here on the west coast, it rains, is always seemingly cloudy, it rains, it blows a gale, it rains and throws it down some more! Not exactly a Festive setting, right?

Of course some things about the Festive Season haven't changed.  The underlying religious message that it supposed to be about the birth of Christ, after all that is where CHRISTmas gets its name.  But coming from a family who weren't the Churchy type (due to over-zealous Priests force-feeding the Catholic message to my Mum as a youngster, and being admonished and punished by said Priests and her Parents for questioning what was being taught because it didn't make sense in places), we never really went to Church, thereby the "good message" of Christmas never particularly figured greatly in our celebrations.  I knew all about it of course, from the teachings at school (I attended the Archbishop of York C of E Junior School in Bishopthorpe, on the outskirts of York, where the Archbishop resides in his Palace. Yes you read that right, PALACE!). Since when do men of the cloth get to live in such grandeur?  Jesus was never that grand!

But getting back to my original point, my childhood was golden, although many would argue that I'm looking at it through rose tinted specs.  We weren't wealthy, had just enough to be comfortable in a simplistic way and when Christmas came around I was lucky to receive a handful of presents, usually consisting of a teddy bear, dolly, wooden bricks, or when a little older things like a Cindy doll, bike (second hand of course) or other smaller toys.  Amusingly, I would also get a small lump of coal in my Stocking, signifying the odd occasion when I had been naughty throughout the year, along with a satsuma and some chocolate coins.  I was brought up with manners and never expected anything, which obviously makes things difficult for people to buy gifts for me to this day. Hee hee. The fact that in this day and age, children are getting a mountain of toys every year makes me despair and feel bemused.  Kids don't NEED that amount of gifts, nor do they need the hugely expensive gifts. Sorry. Looking at it from the other side of the coin, I know it's easy for Parents to get carried away when buying the presents every year, or experience the feeling of guilt when not buying whatever the "in" toy is for that year, but the commercialism in our world right now is making our lives a misery by enforcing the same message that we are failures if we don't get our children that toy.

So, with my rose tinted specs perched firmly on the end of my nose, I thought I would share this with you:


Rosy Christmas:

The Winter draws near once again,
Bringing a chill and a nip in the air,
Frost encrusted ground crunches underfoot,
Natural decorations upon which we stare.
Sparkling and glittering it catches the light,
Crisply shimmering on branches and roofs,
It's too cold to snow, just for now anyway,
The wind holds its breath, nothing moves.
The Sun wraps itself in a blanket of grey,
Hibernating, barely showing its face,
Yet the picturesque scene beheld every year,
Is welcomed with cheer and good grace.
For it can only mean that the Yuletide is come,
Bringing a Season of celebration and Goodwill,
See Children's eyes twinkling with cheeks all aglow,
Anticipation of coming snow and sledging down a hill.
Christmas will come and presents will be left,
Under a tree bedecked with tinsel and bauble,
The lights glimmer softly, a comforting sight,
As a Robin sings a most beautiful warble.
And once the snow comes, in silent display,
Becoming an eiderdown of purest white,
See Snowmen appear, becoming sentinel guards,
Of their child-masters this Festive Season so bright.


Thanks for reading and Merry Christmas Everyone!! I hope you had a good one and that Father Christmas was kind to you. ;-) xxx

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Boxing Day Laziness

Christmas wouldn't be the same without a new poem from our poet laureate. This year saw Carol Ann Duffy write Bethlehem; a beautiful little book published by Picador, illustrated by Alice Stevenson and tucked beneath my tree until I carefully unwrapped it yesterday. This prompted me to remember another Carol Ann poem that I read a couple of years ago on The Guardian's website, and which I thought I'd share with you all today.

THE CHRISTMAS TRUCE

Christmas Eve in the trenches of France,
the guns were quiet.
The dead lay still in No Man's Land –
Freddie, Franz, Friedrich, Frank . . .
The moon, like a medal, hung in the clear, cold sky.

Silver frost on barbed wire, strange tinsel,
sparkled and winked.
A boy from Stroud stared at a star
to meet his mother's eyesight there.
An owl swooped on a rat on the glove of a corpse.

In a copse of trees behind the lines,
a lone bird sang.
A soldier-poet noted it down – a robin
holding his winter ground –
then silence spread and touched each man like a hand.

Somebody kissed the gold of his ring;
a few lit pipes;
most, in their greatcoats, huddled,
waiting for sleep.
The liquid mud had hardened at last in the freeze.

But it was Christmas Eve; believe; belief
thrilled the night air,
where glittering rime on unburied sons
treasured their stiff hair.
The sharp, clean, midwinter smell held memory.

On watch, a rifleman scoured the terrain –
no sign of life,
no shadows, shots from snipers,
nowt to note or report.
The frozen, foreign fields were acres of pain.

Then flickering flames from the other side
danced in his eyes,
as Christmas Trees in their dozens shone,
candlelit on the parapets,
and they started to sing, all down the German lines.

Men who would drown in mud, be gassed, or shot,
or vaporised
by falling shells, or live to tell,
heard for the first time then –
Stille Nacht. Heilige Nacht. Alles schläft, einsam wacht …

Cariad, the song was a sudden bridge
from man to man;
a gift to the heart from home,
or childhood, some place shared …
When it was done, the British soldiers cheered.

A Scotsman started to bawl The First Noel
and all joined in,
till the Germans stood, seeing
across the divide,
the sprawled, mute shapes of those who had died.

All night, along the Western Front, they sang,
the enemies –
carols, hymns, folk songs, anthems,
in German, English, French;
each battalion choired in its grim trench.

So Christmas dawned, wrapped in mist,
to open itself
and offer the day like a gift
for Harry, Hugo, Hermann, Henry, Heinz …
with whistles, waves, cheers, shouts, laughs.

Frohe Weinachten, Tommy! Merry Christmas, Fritz!
A young Berliner,
brandishing schnapps,
was the first from his ditch to climb.
A Shropshire lad ran at him like a rhyme.

Then it was up and over, every man,
to shake the hand
of a foe as a friend,
or slap his back like a brother would;
exchanging gifts of biscuits, tea, Maconochie's stew,

Tickler's jam … for cognac, sausages, cigars,
beer, sauerkraut;
or chase six hares, who jumped
from a cabbage-patch, or find a ball
and make of a battleground a football pitch.

I showed him a picture of my wife.
Ich zeigte ihm
ein Foto meiner Frau.
Sie sei schön, sagte er.
He thought her beautiful, he said.

They buried the dead then, hacked spades
into hard earth
again and again, till a score of men
were at rest, identified, blessed.
Der Herr ist mein Hirt … my shepherd, I shall not want.

And all that marvellous, festive day and night,
they came and went,
the officers, the rank and file,
their fallen comrades side by side
beneath the makeshift crosses of midwinter graves …

… beneath the shivering, shy stars
and the pinned moon
and the yawn of History;
the high, bright bullets
which each man later only aimed at the sky.

(from http://www.theguardian.com/books/2011/nov/11/christmas-truce-poem-carol-ann-duffy)

Hoping you all had a wonderful Christmas,

Lara

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