merry Christmas, one and all

Merry Christmas, every body.  As usual, I have woken up before the Systems Administrator, so will write a quick blog entry now.  I don't suppose I'll feel like doing one later, and in any case I generally adhere to the rule never to press a button labelled Publish or Send on any device connected to the internet after having had anything to drink.  It's a good principle, which would save a lot of hassle if universally followed, and extended to mobiles, texts and Twitter.

I have put the SA's presents under the tree, and spread out the red tablecloth and the white lace tablecloth on the dining table, and dug out the giant candle we use at Christmas.  I have washed up last night's debris, apart from two frying pans which are still soaking, and emptied the dishwasher. I have put a lump of butter in a bowl to soften at room temperature, so that later I can make the rum butter.  In a few minutes I might peel the carrots.  Maybe even the potatoes.

The SA cooks lunch.  The SA does most of the cooking anyway, and knows how to make all the components of a roast happen at the same time without having a nervous breakdown.  I can do puddings, bakery goods, and boiled things, but roasts are outside my comfort zone.  We are having a chicken.  We like chicken and it is the right size, while neither of us are all that keen on the taste of turkey, and the birds are much too large for two people.  We used to dutifully buy a Norfolk Bronze, struggle with the leftovers, and feel terribly guilty at the amount we threw away, before realising we didn't have to have a turkey.  People have suggested duck, or beef, or goose, or pheasant, or a turkey crown, but you can't have cranberry sauce with beef, and I couldn't be bothered to track down a turkey crown that was guaranteed free range.  And anyway, we like chicken more than turkey, while the SA doesn't like game.  I might volunteer to cook a duck, one of these days, and see if the SA finds it too fatty when it's done properly, but I'm not messing around with that for Christmas lunch.

The funeral went off OK.  The church was almost full, and the village hall afterwards, and everybody rose to the occasion.  The widow was marvellously composed, their daughter who gave one of the addresses had mastered the art of talking and crying simultaneously, there was an impressive turnout of classic cars, and some mourners had battled through very difficult journeys just to get there, given the storms and travel chaos.  It's a small world.  I met one of my father's cousin's friends at the refreshments afterwards, but she hadn't heard any more than I had about how he was doing.

I am afraid the prospect of going to the funeral spoiled my concentration yesterday morning, as when I looked at yesterday's blog entry in the afternoon I saw I'd muffed the headline.  It should of course have read nine lessons and carols, not lessons and lessons.  In best Guardian style this article has now been amended.