Oh, Christmas tree...

Christmas never feels quite like Christmas until you have a tree.  I've often admired artificial trees and their perfect symmetry, let alone their distinct lack of needle drop, but for me there's nothing quite like a real evergreen brought indoors to start yuletide good and proper.  Just a whiff of cut pine and I'm instantly transported back to my childhood. I can remember vividly my father tying the tree to the roof of the car and then struggling to find something to stand it in and then to keep it straight.  It was before the days of special stands and I seem to remember that generally he resorted to using a bright orange plastic bucket heavily disguised with green crepe paper and filled with heavy stones.  He would then go about untangling the fairy lights and attempt to drape them around the tree. He was very exacting about this and the end result was perfectly placed lights but on a now leaning Tower of Pisa tree with half the needles on the floor.

The Frankentree

In the Little House we've been a little slow getting into Christmas mode this year and, keen to keep the expense of Christmas down, we decided to just buy one of the cheap ready-netted trees from our local supermarket rather than selecting one of the more extortionate varieties from the garden centre. The resulting purchase I have begun to refer to as 'Frankentree' (reminiscent of Frankenstein's monster rather than anything to do with frankincense). There is nothing standard about it and it appears as if it has been grafted together from random off-cuts.  Clearly from the outsize section, it has a very fat bottom that bulges out and hangs down at the back (I know how it feels!) The middle is completely disproportionate; there are disconcerting gaps whichever way you turn it and there are odd stunted sprigs. The top half has bare patches on the trunk with completely different triffid-like branches that come out at odd right angles more like some weird coat stand than tree.

Once fixed in the stand and not looking a whole lot better 'we' had to work out where it should go (that's the royal 'we' where I direct, L does what he is told and I take the credit) .  'We' had thought that the most likely position would be in the front window and so I had L move the tall and awkward wooden cabinet and glass lamp in order to put it there.  But no, in that spot no one would be able to get in and out of the room without having to brush past it and so out it came again and back went the cabinet and the lamp.  Next 'we' decided that it might be better placed next to the sofa.  L moved the other small, but surprisingly heavy, coffee table out of the way and upstairs along with yet another lamp. Once in situ it became obvious that the door would bash against it and it would probably dry out as it was opposite the wood burning stove. So, the coffee table came back downstairs and the lamp was connected once again. 'We' decided that the corner of the room by the other window might be better and so S's keyboard was moved out and went upstairs.  L searched high and low for an extension lead so she would still be able to do her daily practice. Eventually, he managed to find one and get everything working again. He informed me that the football had started. But, now you could not really see the television or get to the cupboard with the control for the central heating.  Not very practical so out it came again and stood in the middle of the room for quite some time while L muttered...and sighed ...deeply.  Finally, 'we' decided that the corner really was the only position for it to go and so the TV and the the other even heavier cabinet would have to move along and the Sky box and DVD player unplugged and then reconnected to the side.  'We' needed another extension cable but that was alright because it was half time anyway. At last 'we' managed to make it fit and I can see why L thought to suggest this position in the first place. He can still make the remote work if he walks over to the other side of the room and kneels down.

It did irritate me though that the picture above the TV was no longer central and so I suggested to L that 'we' re-hang it.  He went outside. I thought it was to find the hammer and picture hooks but when after half an hour he still hadn't returned I went to find him.  He was sat on the wood pile in the barn wearing two coats and listening to the post-match discussion on his portable radio.  Two empty beer cans were lined up beside him.  'I've found the lights,' I said enthusiastically.  He managed a weak smile.  At least I think it was a smile, it was quite dark by then so it was difficult to tell.

Adventures in Advent

I love Christmas time and have never lost that feeling of childlike anticipation that accompanies advent. All our Christmas decorations are stored in boxes high up in the loft, but each year one box is held back and put safely under our bed.  This is the advent box and the first precious item retrieved from it is our advent wreath.  These are traditionally meant to be a handmade circular garland of evergreens but long ago, realising my creative incompetence, I acquired a pretty Swedish-made crystal one.  We light one more of the four candles each Sunday in the run-up to Christmas.

I'm sure L enjoys the season too but each December he complains with Scrooge-type mutterings about some aspect or other of the preparations.  This year he was most unseasonable about my choice of 'stupid' gold candles and in his frustration, which manifested as constant rubbing of his face and much sighing, he ended up with gold-speckled chin and highlighted eyebrows. I decided not to inform him about his unintentional 'make-up' even when he went off to the village committee meeting where I'm sure the elderly members must have been surprised at his 'brilliant' appearance. 

My mother-in-law, who is Danish and far more tuned in to yuletide traditions, used to bring us a beautifully illustrated advent candle from Copenhagen every year with the numbers 1 to 24 marked down the side.  This year though she has been unable to travel and I was forced to find one myself.  I turned to the trusty internet and felt sure that such an item would be in stock but I had no joy.  L suggested, unsympathetically, that I 'just make one' from a normal white household candle and use a black Sharpie pen to write on the numbers!  Clearly, he has not inherited his mother's Scandinavian genes so, undeterred, and ignoring his ugly suggestion, I set off on my advent journey to that beacon of hope - John Lewis. There amongst the December chaos of celebrant shoppers I found a simple but attractive candle more in keeping with my  aesthetics.  I was thrilled with my minor commercialism and smugly made my way to the heaving queue at the checkout where I paid the grand total of £3.50.  The lady at the till seemed thoroughly bewildered by the appearance of real money, let alone actual coinage, and her expression seemed to suggest that I was not materialisitic enough to shop at such a debt-inspiring establishment.  My smile though faded when I went to leave the car park and paid £4.80 to do so; I'd only been in there for 20 minutes! Nevermind, I think it was worth it.  Each evening at supper time we light the candle and admire its glow. We watch the numbers slowly melt away and we are mindful of the season and its meaning. 

Light the Advent candle one

Now the waiting has begun

We have started on our way

Time to think of Christmas day.

Candle, candle burning bright

Shining in the winter night

Candle, candle burning bright

Fill our hearts with Christmas light.

This moment...

Inspired by Soulemama's {this moment} - a Friday ritual. Photos - no words, capturing a favourite moment from the week. A special and treasured moment that I would like to pause and remember.

Taken by H - thank you!

 

This moment...

Inspired by Soulemama's {this moment} - a Friday ritual. A single photo - no words, capturing a favourite moment from the week. A calm and peaceful moment that I would like to pause and remember.

Trains...

Last weekend we set off on a jaunt down to old London town.  It’s been a long time since I’ve attempted to travel on public transport, especially with the entire family, but once on board I was reminded of two certainties about train travel.  Firstly, that you are guaranteed to be delayed. There are a multitude of lame excuses used to explain the hold-up but the most frequent at the weekend is 'engineering works' or possibly a cow on the line or some other errant farm animal.  Fortunately, the delay was mercifully short and we were spared the miserable experience of the 'replacement bus service'. The second certainty about train travel is that even though you have booked a seat and have the proof of your reservation clearly displayed, someone else will brazenly be sat in it.  On this occasion a solitary old man had set up home at our reserved table for four.  He was festooned against the window in an enormous tartan scarf and about to pour out what looked like a second cup of elderly tea from his ancient thermos.  He looked so comfortable I hardly had the heart to ask if he would mind moving and ended up searching for a spare seat for him and then helping him to decamp.

Travel on the East Coast network is an experience much like sharing a narrow and overcrowded sitting room with a whole host of strangers.  You are forced to acknowledge individual quirks and foibles at close range.  For example, the couple opposite, who sat one side of the much coveted table seats, seemed to have a whole party picnic going on.  The train was only part way out of the station when mini bottles of wine appeared from a Mary Poppins-like bag complete with party napkins and colourful plastic cups.  Next,  came the hot and spicy flavour Pringles which were munched enthusiastically at high decimal range.

Behind us was a cluster of grungy-looking students clearly heading home with a term's worth of washing overflowing from their backpacks.  Their grunted conversation was punctuated with the inevitable filler 'like' every few words and followed an endlessly circular theme of: "Like, that was some party",  "I was, like, so wasted", "I don't, like, even remember, like, how we got back?", "That's because you you were, like, so wasted", "Yeah, like that was some party" and so on..and on.

Looking round the carriage the other thing that stood out was the plethora of iPhone, Kindle, iPad and tablet that covered every available surface. In amongst this hive of 21st century connectivity there was someone attempting to travel with the most dated and unwieldy of laptops.  This luddite had infiltrated the 'cool' carriage with a laptop/tabletop the size of Mars.  The cinema-sized screen blocked out all light like some kind of electronic eclipse. Nevertheless, he sat smugly with his underwhelming technology and watched a steady stream of equally naff movies, oblivious to the looks and sneers of other less-endowed travellers.  For my amusement, apart, of course, from the merriment that is the East Coast trainline, I chose to partake of that old-fashioned but delightful occupation...looking out of the window. I love the constantly changing scenery of passing towns and villages, imagining what it might be like to live there.  Through the window I viewed tantalising glimpses of the lives of others and I wondered what their stories might be.  Being held captive as a passenger forced me to slow down and be mindful of the moment - my breathing slowed and my muscles relaxed.  Such a beautiful ribbon of images danced before my eyes - the unspoilt coastline of Northumberland, the hay bales dotting the autumn fields,  vintage little stations evocative of The Railway Children, the brightly lit arch of the Tyne bridge - all caught and held my attention and provided an alternative and far more inspiring entertainment.


Joining in with Suzanne at 3 Children and It and Oldies but Goodies.

This moment...

Inspired by Soulemama's {this moment} - a Friday ritual. A single photo - few words, capturing a favourite image from the week. A simple and funny moment that I would like to pause and remember.

You're not leaving!

The bizarre world of freecycle

I'm always surprised by the number of emails that jettison into my inbox with such alarming frequency at any time of day or night.  Alas, they are not from any genuine contact but instead a tawdry selection of direct mail that managed to sneak past the spam filter.   At least 40% of these are the ubiquitous Groupon deals; how I rue the day when I foolishly signed up to that online bargain bucket!

Daily, I am also presented with the eclectic freecycle list.  For those of you not familiar with this enterprising idea then the freecycle network claims to "match people with things they want to get rid of with people who can use them, so keeping usable items out of landfills".  In other words, if you have something pointless and dated that you haven't managed to sell, then don't trek to the dump but put it on freecycle instead and, just because it's free, someone will come and take it off your hands.

I have only ever used freecycle twice - to offer an old (and possibly lethal) bicycle and, after a house move, a surplus fridge with a dented door. Having 'joined' the freecyclers I now seem to be subscribed to the daily digest of items.  It may be my imagination but the list seems to get more and more bizarre.  Yesterday, someone, with the uninspired moniker of BigLen, was offering 20 burlap sacks.  I know we live in a rural area but 'burlap' sounds positively medieval and I can't help but imagine that if you went to collect, you would find BigLen in some Chaucerian hovel, lying on his earthern floor drinking mead and surrounded by overflowing sacks of rotting apples.  Burlap sacks are just one of the offered goods; there is a whole host of other truly random freebies: - a home planetarium (really?), a plastic pond liner, a pair of men's extra large leather jeans (*shudders) and a washing machine in working order but without a soap dispenser drawer!

Just as bewildering is the list of 'wanted' items.  The desperate or  criminal (I can't decide which)  GrannyGrimble wants electronic goods (don't we all) - a flatscreen tv, an ipod docking station, a spare laptop (you've got to be kidding!)  Surely a true granny would want knitting patterns, old copies of the Reader's Digest perhaps or jars for jam-making.  I feel certain that if you were to actually meet Big Bad Granny Grimble she'd have pointy ears and sharp teeth.  It's funny how such a noble idea has been hijacked by these 'freakcyclers'; they make me want to post my own Christmas 'wanted' list and ask for the ridiculously weird or just the downright cheeky just to see if anyone actually responds.  

I'm recycling this old post with Suzanne over at 3 Children and It and the Oldies but Goodies linky