“The thing is,” says Pa, “every now and then, Sainsbury’s have an offer on chocolate oranges. Three for the price of two, that sort of thing. So…” He waves a hand in the general direction of the bed and shrugs.
The bed in the box-room at Ma and Pa’s house is stacked with an assortment of what I guess supermarkets would call ‘stocking fillers’. Post-it notes, socks, sherbert lemons, scented candles, tins of gin, chocolate raisins, pens, home-made Ma-malade and chocolate oranges. Many, many chocolate oranges. All the chocolate oranges, in fact.
ActorLaddie’s nephew, Alan-in-Australia, when he phoned to give his condolences, mentioned that he’d had a fancy for a chocolate orange the other day but none were to be found anywhere in Sydney. That’s how many chocolate oranges are in the box-room.Continue reading →
The Secret Santa present for work needs to be handed in tomorrow, so, as soon as I’ve finished this blogette, I’m going to tackle the first wrapping of the season. I’m wondering, did you happen to catch the brilliant Secret Santa story covered in Friday afternoon’s ‘You and Yours’? If not, let me share.
“Good evening,” says Hazza. “We’re collecting for the local Rotary Group. This year’s charities are the Nightingale Children’s Hospice, Noah’s Ark Hospice and Parkinson’s UK.” Hazza smiles winningly and holds out her tin.
As befits a groovy media student in Swinging London, my niece Hazza chooses her outfits with care. Tonight she is bedecked in a red and green elf dress layered with a fetching hi-vis tabard which has been printed boldly with the details of said Rotary Club. The look is topped off with a cheeky little elf hat. Take note, fashionistas – next year, we’ll all be wearing this.
The Householder peers at her suspiciously. “Do you have an identity card?”
“Well, not actually a card,” says Hazza, “ but our details are here.” And she points to her tabard. Householder still looks suspicious and seems about to close the door. “And,” adds Hazza quickly,” I do have Santa with me.”
I’ve been invited to take part in other research study.
Long-term readers – those who haven’t left me in a huff because I missed last weekend’s blog – what can I say? – I was in bed a-coughing and a-sneezing and a-feeling vastly sorry for myself – you wouldn’t have wanted to read it, anyway; it was probably infectious – tell you what, I’ll get a note from my Ma who kept sending around lemons – anyway, those readers who are still with me, despite my punctuation and tendency to digress – those readers might remember that last year, I had a very expensive brain scan.
It’s a fair cop, guv. It’s been a manic weekend trying to get Volume Two of the Jelly Chronicles edited before publication and I missed doing this week’s blog.
So, for your delectation and delight, below is another chance to read my favourite Christmas Blog in honour of this week’s Nativities.
More bloomin’ repeats…
By the way, a Big Thank You for remembering to turn on the GiveAsYouLive when buying on-line this week.
“What I most remember about Great-Gran’s were the mangles in the garden,” said LittleBro, as we were chatting this afternoon. “I was told that they were for the hens. It’s only recently that I’ve realised it was the chicken food that was mangled and not the actual chickens.”
For me, Great Gran’s was a garden with hollyhocks above my head. An outside loo with a wide, wooden seat and paper on a string. Ginger biscuits, a budgerigar and Dr Who.
– I woke up to find that InfantPhenomenon had not after all thrown over BikingLad in order to marry Gordon Brown and
– I now know very slightly more than nothing about Classical Humanism (it was Roman) and the Medici family (they were Italian) and
– I’ve made a small impact on the jungle we inherited but still lots to get my teeth into and
– I wore my new fingerless gloves what Ma made me for Christmas and
– drank coffee from my new thermal mug what Secret Santa gave me and
– ate a toastie from the toastie-maker what Mrs Castle gave me and
– Ma wasn’t too traumatised by receiving fourteen garden gnomes for her birthday and
– Pa said at least it would be someone to talk to and
– we’ve managed to rearrange the bungalow to squeeze in Young Lochinvar and Ms Tintin while they look for alternative digs – preferably somewhere that doesn’t give you an electric shock when you turn on the light and
– there’s still a week of the Christmas holiday left and – Oh joy unconfined! Verily rejoice! –
– there’s a whole year before we have to do any more Christmas shopping.
Mind you, the 99p shop is already selling Creme Eggs.
“We don’t want the Reception children to think that we are saying the F-Word,” Oliver tells me earnestly. “So when we get to the word ‘fox’, we’re going to say it like this…FOOOX. Very clearly.”
“Good thinking, Oliver. I’m quite sure that, um – Ylvis – would be horrified if anyone thought he was swearing. Off you go, then.”
For Mrs Karma and Mrs Auld-Syne
Partners in Planning Par excellence
ideas for a blog
Other things I don’t
written cards; bought presents;
baubles (taken to
work as a prop for teaching
division); plans for the Christmas
dinner we’re cooking in
“Now, King Rat, you come in when you hear Rat-Trap.” I say. King Rat looks confused.
“You know, by the Boomtown Rats.” King Rat shrugs and shakes his head. Youthfully.
“The Boomtown Rats. As in I Don’t Like Mondays?” Nope.
“Bob Geldof?” I try. Bingo. I can see the mists clearing. King Rat smiles.
“You mean Peaches’ Dad!” he says.
I raise my eyebrows and look at him with withering disbelief.