Happy Christmas. We have exchanged presents, and the Systems Administrator is now cooking the lunch while I listen to Peter Warlock. The SA is unaccountably hostile to Warlock, and I may have to fast forward to get to Bethlehem Down before lunch is served. Our Ginger is delighted to have a fire lit so early in the day and is basking on the hearth rug. The short indignant tabby is sitting in the hall. She sees no reason to alter her routine just because we have, though I did hear cries earlier that suggested she might be trying to break into the kitchen. The chickens have had a handful of sultanas and a couple of tomatoes that had gone squishy in the fridge.
It is a very beautiful day in north east Essex, sunny and bright and quite warm. I went down to the bottom of the garden first thing, and picked a spring of white daphne, some viburnum and a solitary cyclamen that was flowering in the lawn. It would be a lovely day for gardening if I didn't have a special dispensation to spend the day on the sofa, listening to music, looking at the books I've been given, and ambling through a Sudoko without any illusions that I'm going to set a personal best for time. Picking the cyclamen reminded me that it might be a good idea to move the self seeded plants out of the lawn, where they're likely to be caught by a late cut just as they're thinking about flowering. The trees are steadily shading out the grass, though, and the moss is taking over, so maybe when I look at the corner again I'll decide to leave it. Moss studded with cyclamen is very lovely, and of course doesn't need mowing, but there's the issue of the cow parsley and geum like weed (or wild flower, depending on your point of view) whose name I don't know, not to mention the herb robert, which all like seeding into the lawn (or moss) as well.
I don't mind it not being a white Christmas at all. In fact, white Christmases seem to me to be pretty much a nuisance when lots of people have made arrangements to travel to see their friends and relations over the festive period. One of the signs that you are definitely middle aged is when you begin to think that snow is over-rated.
The SA has just bounded up the stairs to run through the list of everything that's cooking, scientifically organised by category. Vegetables, four: sprouts, carrots, parnips, potatoes. Meat, two: chicken, ham. Processed meat, two: chipolatas and bacon. Stuffing, two: chestnut and sage-and-onion. Pudding. I agreed that I couldn't think of anything missing from the list, but if there is I won't be able to grumble. I made my contribution to lunch (apart from doing the supermarket shop and remembering to order the pudding) by peeling the sprouts. I bought a stalk this year because the individual buttons keep better, drawing moisture from the stalk. A brussel sprout stalk is really the most unlikely piece of vegetation, when you think about it. And I have just fed the cat to keep her out from under the SA's feet.
I hope that everyone else is likewise having whatever sort of Christmas suits them.
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