Clear blue sky, occasional puff of cloud. Crows caw in the trees. Hot sun, cold wind in shade. River sparkles as tide seeps in, covering seaweed coated sand. Up-river beached boats begin to float.
Walkers with coloured sweaters tied around waists stride by, leaning on poles and sticks. Families saunter with romping dogs towards the pub at head of the river. Chatter. Conversation. Laughter. Shouts.
Loud music blares from a van. Plastic kayaks hit the ground with a crack. Dragged across the pebbles to the water, launched with a splash. Rowed across the river sliding sideways with the tide. Snatches of instruction float back.
Stranded boats on quay. Paint. Wood. Tools. Green tangled fishing nets wrapped round lobster pots and intertwined with orange polypropylene rope. Thick hemp spliced round large galvanised eyes. Smells of the sea. Fishy paint suntan lotion intertwined with coffee.
Down-river boats point into incoming tide. Small dinghies ferry expectant crew. Assorted vessels mill around the entrance to the harbour. In and out.
Tuesday, 17 July 2012
Wednesday, 9 May 2012
Visiting Time
My mum was 78 years old when diagnosed with a cancerous lump attached to her kidney. For the three days she was in hospital for diagnosis no visitors were allowed because of the norovirus strain of gastroenteritis running rife through staff and patients.
One month later she was back in the same hospital, which was still under 'lockdown', for surgery to remove the kidney and tumour. My dad and two sisters were allowed as far as a room where they could unpack her bag with a nurse hovering, waiting to usher them out. They left mum sitting in a chair looking slightly bewildered.
One of my brothers and a sister live within a few miles of the hospital. My other sister had come over from Canada, planning to stay for a few months to get mum back on her feet. My older younger brother was at home on the Isles of Scilly, and I had travelled down from Wales a couple of weeks previously. Back on the mainland I was staying with a friend and could see the hospital from the rooftop cafe of the Sainsburys round the corner. This was also the only place I could get some sort of phone signal!
The operation went well and we could phone the hospital as there was an extension to mum's bed. She was flying high for a couple of days as pain meds were being pumped into her. My sister from Canada and I were getting fed up at not being allowed to see her so when the bus to the hospital arrived we looked at each other, grinned and got on. We arrived at the entrance to the oncology block to be greeted by a portly woman wearing a high-vis vest. She approached us and asked whether we had an appointment. My sister looked slightly lost and in her Canadian accent said, "Umm I'm not sure." "Oh that's alright dear," came the reply, "Just go and see the receptionist." We walked towards the desk where another woman asked whether she could help. My sister put on her conspiratorial look and asked if she could 'use the bearthroom.' We were duly pointed to the facilities around the corner. We were in!
The lifts were disgustingly dirty and dingy but we gritted our teeth, rode up two floors, got out and strode purposefully to the ward entrance. There we used alcohol rub to disinfect our hands, then started down the ward.
"What now?" I whispered.
"Haven't got a clue!" came the reassuring reply. "I'll have to wing it." Great! As we walked towards the nurses' station a young man looked up and asked us if the ban had been lifted! We declined to answer on the grounds that it might incriminate us, so we just smiled and said we had come to see our mother, who had had a serious operation. He called the charge nurse over, and my sister whispered that she was going to play her trump card, which was wearing a bit thin!
She duly explained to this nice lady that she had flown all the way from Canada to see her mother who had had this serious operation; the fact that she had been in the UK for nearly a week was one she conveniently forgot to mention. Mum was in the observation bay, right opposite the nurses' station and as the nurse led us over she asked whether we had any symptoms of d and v - as if we'd have been wandering around anywhere apart from a bathroom!
Mum was lying with her eyes closed and the look on her face when she saw us was worth it - I had to say that it was really me and not a figment of her imagination! We didn't stay long but it was enough to cheer us all up. My sister and I were out of there like a dose of salts and into the lift, expecting the hand of security on our shoulders at any time. The receptionist was conveniently missing and the high-vis lady was talking to someone else so we sauntered out. Once outside we ran down the grass bank to the bus stop laughing hysterically and exchanging high fives! Well, it's not every day one breaks into a hospital.
One month later she was back in the same hospital, which was still under 'lockdown', for surgery to remove the kidney and tumour. My dad and two sisters were allowed as far as a room where they could unpack her bag with a nurse hovering, waiting to usher them out. They left mum sitting in a chair looking slightly bewildered.
One of my brothers and a sister live within a few miles of the hospital. My other sister had come over from Canada, planning to stay for a few months to get mum back on her feet. My older younger brother was at home on the Isles of Scilly, and I had travelled down from Wales a couple of weeks previously. Back on the mainland I was staying with a friend and could see the hospital from the rooftop cafe of the Sainsburys round the corner. This was also the only place I could get some sort of phone signal!
The operation went well and we could phone the hospital as there was an extension to mum's bed. She was flying high for a couple of days as pain meds were being pumped into her. My sister from Canada and I were getting fed up at not being allowed to see her so when the bus to the hospital arrived we looked at each other, grinned and got on. We arrived at the entrance to the oncology block to be greeted by a portly woman wearing a high-vis vest. She approached us and asked whether we had an appointment. My sister looked slightly lost and in her Canadian accent said, "Umm I'm not sure." "Oh that's alright dear," came the reply, "Just go and see the receptionist." We walked towards the desk where another woman asked whether she could help. My sister put on her conspiratorial look and asked if she could 'use the bearthroom.' We were duly pointed to the facilities around the corner. We were in!
The lifts were disgustingly dirty and dingy but we gritted our teeth, rode up two floors, got out and strode purposefully to the ward entrance. There we used alcohol rub to disinfect our hands, then started down the ward.
"What now?" I whispered.
"Haven't got a clue!" came the reassuring reply. "I'll have to wing it." Great! As we walked towards the nurses' station a young man looked up and asked us if the ban had been lifted! We declined to answer on the grounds that it might incriminate us, so we just smiled and said we had come to see our mother, who had had a serious operation. He called the charge nurse over, and my sister whispered that she was going to play her trump card, which was wearing a bit thin!
She duly explained to this nice lady that she had flown all the way from Canada to see her mother who had had this serious operation; the fact that she had been in the UK for nearly a week was one she conveniently forgot to mention. Mum was in the observation bay, right opposite the nurses' station and as the nurse led us over she asked whether we had any symptoms of d and v - as if we'd have been wandering around anywhere apart from a bathroom!
Mum was lying with her eyes closed and the look on her face when she saw us was worth it - I had to say that it was really me and not a figment of her imagination! We didn't stay long but it was enough to cheer us all up. My sister and I were out of there like a dose of salts and into the lift, expecting the hand of security on our shoulders at any time. The receptionist was conveniently missing and the high-vis lady was talking to someone else so we sauntered out. Once outside we ran down the grass bank to the bus stop laughing hysterically and exchanging high fives! Well, it's not every day one breaks into a hospital.
Friday, 6 August 2010
Understanding Her
When she stares at your mouth, kiss her.
When she pushes you or hits you like a dummy cause she thinks she's stronger than you, grab her and dont let go. When she starts cursing at you trying to act all tough, kiss her and tell her you love her. When she's quiet ask her what's wrong.
When she ignores you give her your attention. When she pulls away, pull her back. When you see her at her worst tell her she's beautiful.
When you see her start crying just hold her and don't say a word.When you see her walking, sneak up and hug her waist from behind.When she's scared, protect her. When she steals your favorite hoodie let her keep it and sleep with it for a night. When she teases you tease her back and make her laugh.When she doesn't answer for a long time, reassure her that everything is okay. When she looks at you with doubt back yourself up. When she says that she loves you she really does, more than you can understand.When she grabs at your hands hold hers and play with her fingers.When she bumps into you bump into her back and make her laugh.When she tells you a secret keep it safe and untold.When she looks at you in your eyes don't look away until she does.
When she says it's over, she still wants you to be hers
Anon
When she ignores you give her your attention. When she pulls away, pull her back. When you see her at her worst tell her she's beautiful.
When you see her start crying just hold her and don't say a word.When you see her walking, sneak up and hug her waist from behind.When she's scared, protect her. When she steals your favorite hoodie let her keep it and sleep with it for a night. When she teases you tease her back and make her laugh.When she doesn't answer for a long time, reassure her that everything is okay. When she looks at you with doubt back yourself up. When she says that she loves you she really does, more than you can understand.When she grabs at your hands hold hers and play with her fingers.When she bumps into you bump into her back and make her laugh.When she tells you a secret keep it safe and untold.When she looks at you in your eyes don't look away until she does.
When she says it's over, she still wants you to be hers
Anon
Sunday, 9 May 2010
Not to see or to see; that is the question. Answer in six minutes
‘Best thing I ever had done’
‘Wish I’d known about it years ago’
‘I can see clearly again’
So the TV adverts for Laser Eye Corrective Surgery went. Ring this number for a free consultation. After pressure from a friend whose eyes weren’t suitable for the procedure I rang the number, went for an extensive eye examination and was given an appointment to commence for the following week.
Whoa, rewind, not so fast. How come the price was going to be three times that advertised on the TV? Okay, I was never going to get the three years interest free payment scheme; my credit rating was doing the equivalent of a dead yoyo so I had to start saving. A sizable bequest from a deceased aunt, bless her, speeded up the process and the whole amount was paid up front. An appointment was booked and I duly turned up with sunglasses and hotel room booked for one night, to save me having to do the 120 mile round trip for the ‘next day’ check-up. I was given a few routine eye tests then called in to see the surgeon, who was looking at the result of my tests.
I had been wearing contact lenses for years and had developed ‘dry eyes’ for which I was using 'artificial tears' eye drops. A week before the procedure I had to stop wearing the lenses and go back to glasses, so I stopped using the drops. Bad move.
“I’m afraid we can’t operate today” were the surgeon’s opening words. “How long have your lenses been out?”
“A week”
“Mmmm, a month would have been better. I’m afraid you have very dry eyes and this would make recovery.......”
I had zoned out when I heard the words ‘can’t operate today’, so the rest of his words went over my head. Apparently, apart from the dry eyes I also had black spots on my corneas. So, armed with artificial tears, two different lots of steroid drops with a complicated 5 times a day schedule and an appointment for a month later, I went home. No point in staying over now. Besides, I was gutted.
One month and four bottles of drops later I duly presented myself at the opticians after a two and three quarter hour train journey. Well, three and a half because of an oil truck which had broken down on the line ahead. Made a change from sheep or leaves. More eye tests were done by the optometrist; I didn’t even get as far as the surgeon. My eyes were still slightly dry and I had developed ‘sticky eye’ this time; I thought only babies got that. So I was sent away yet again with antibiotic eye drops, plus the basic ones, a recommendation to take flax seed oil tablets and another appointment for a month later. I was getting fed up wasting nearly a day on a train for a 5 minute consult but I had to admit that the quality of their care was excellent.
Another month later and this time my eyes were okay, but the optician recommended I see the surgeon before finalising a date to avoid a repeat of the first visit. He was available the following Friday, a week before Christmas, but by then I had a rotten cold and my eyes were streaming so I canceled. The next available space was the first week of the New Year so up I went in the snow. After another battery of tests I finally got in to see the surgeon.
“Well, this is an amazing improvement” was his opening comment. “I think we can set a date for the procedure!” My grin nearly split my face. “When would you like to come in?”
“Errr whenever; as soon as possible, whenever it’s convenient, I don’t mind!”
He looked at his assistant then back at me. “How about now?”
Result!
At last! I had to wait 45 minutes, time to read and sign the consent papers and send off a shower of text messages before being summoned upstairs to the theatre. For the sake of the squeamish I won’t describe the not so gory details; suffice to say that after 3 minutes on each eye I was back in the dark recovery room where I had to sit for ten minutes with my eyes closed while an assistant read a list of dos and donts. I was told that I would have unclear vision for a while, and once the anesthetic on my eyelids wore off there might be some discomfort. Then a taxi back to the train station with instructions to get a taxi home at the other end.
By the time I was in my seat on the train the discomfort had started. My eyes wanted to close, everyone was sending me texts which I couldn’t read and it was sooo bright, even with my eyes closed. I had my hand over my eyes to cut out the light and slept for some time because when I opened them again my vision was clearing. The closer I got to home the more snow there was; my daughter was phoning me with updates while she was stuck in queues trying to get home. There wasn’t a taxi in sight so I walked home thinking that the surgeon would be having palpitations if he knew!
With more drops and a pair of shaded goggles to wear at night to prevent anything rubbing my eyes while I was asleep, I didn’t know what to do with myself that first evening. Having been told to rest my eyes I didn’t dare put my TV on! I did sneak a peek at my computer though just to let friends on Facebook know that I wasn’t really there. I was supposed to go back the next day for a check up but was snowed in, so I had my next day and weekly check at the same time. Everything was fine and healing well. I was able to read every line of the wall chart across the room then the optician asked if I’d like to see what my eyesight was like before I’d had the correction. He held two round glass lenses in front of my eyes and I was blind; I couldn’t even see the board, let alone read anything on it!
"It is the best thing I’ve ever done."
"I wish I’d done it years ago."
I have to wear reading glasses for close work but that is nothing. It’s just an age thing.
"I can see clearly again."
‘Wish I’d known about it years ago’
‘I can see clearly again’
So the TV adverts for Laser Eye Corrective Surgery went. Ring this number for a free consultation. After pressure from a friend whose eyes weren’t suitable for the procedure I rang the number, went for an extensive eye examination and was given an appointment to commence for the following week.
Whoa, rewind, not so fast. How come the price was going to be three times that advertised on the TV? Okay, I was never going to get the three years interest free payment scheme; my credit rating was doing the equivalent of a dead yoyo so I had to start saving. A sizable bequest from a deceased aunt, bless her, speeded up the process and the whole amount was paid up front. An appointment was booked and I duly turned up with sunglasses and hotel room booked for one night, to save me having to do the 120 mile round trip for the ‘next day’ check-up. I was given a few routine eye tests then called in to see the surgeon, who was looking at the result of my tests.
I had been wearing contact lenses for years and had developed ‘dry eyes’ for which I was using 'artificial tears' eye drops. A week before the procedure I had to stop wearing the lenses and go back to glasses, so I stopped using the drops. Bad move.
“I’m afraid we can’t operate today” were the surgeon’s opening words. “How long have your lenses been out?”
“A week”
“Mmmm, a month would have been better. I’m afraid you have very dry eyes and this would make recovery.......”
I had zoned out when I heard the words ‘can’t operate today’, so the rest of his words went over my head. Apparently, apart from the dry eyes I also had black spots on my corneas. So, armed with artificial tears, two different lots of steroid drops with a complicated 5 times a day schedule and an appointment for a month later, I went home. No point in staying over now. Besides, I was gutted.
One month and four bottles of drops later I duly presented myself at the opticians after a two and three quarter hour train journey. Well, three and a half because of an oil truck which had broken down on the line ahead. Made a change from sheep or leaves. More eye tests were done by the optometrist; I didn’t even get as far as the surgeon. My eyes were still slightly dry and I had developed ‘sticky eye’ this time; I thought only babies got that. So I was sent away yet again with antibiotic eye drops, plus the basic ones, a recommendation to take flax seed oil tablets and another appointment for a month later. I was getting fed up wasting nearly a day on a train for a 5 minute consult but I had to admit that the quality of their care was excellent.
Another month later and this time my eyes were okay, but the optician recommended I see the surgeon before finalising a date to avoid a repeat of the first visit. He was available the following Friday, a week before Christmas, but by then I had a rotten cold and my eyes were streaming so I canceled. The next available space was the first week of the New Year so up I went in the snow. After another battery of tests I finally got in to see the surgeon.
“Well, this is an amazing improvement” was his opening comment. “I think we can set a date for the procedure!” My grin nearly split my face. “When would you like to come in?”
“Errr whenever; as soon as possible, whenever it’s convenient, I don’t mind!”
He looked at his assistant then back at me. “How about now?”
Result!
At last! I had to wait 45 minutes, time to read and sign the consent papers and send off a shower of text messages before being summoned upstairs to the theatre. For the sake of the squeamish I won’t describe the not so gory details; suffice to say that after 3 minutes on each eye I was back in the dark recovery room where I had to sit for ten minutes with my eyes closed while an assistant read a list of dos and donts. I was told that I would have unclear vision for a while, and once the anesthetic on my eyelids wore off there might be some discomfort. Then a taxi back to the train station with instructions to get a taxi home at the other end.
By the time I was in my seat on the train the discomfort had started. My eyes wanted to close, everyone was sending me texts which I couldn’t read and it was sooo bright, even with my eyes closed. I had my hand over my eyes to cut out the light and slept for some time because when I opened them again my vision was clearing. The closer I got to home the more snow there was; my daughter was phoning me with updates while she was stuck in queues trying to get home. There wasn’t a taxi in sight so I walked home thinking that the surgeon would be having palpitations if he knew!
With more drops and a pair of shaded goggles to wear at night to prevent anything rubbing my eyes while I was asleep, I didn’t know what to do with myself that first evening. Having been told to rest my eyes I didn’t dare put my TV on! I did sneak a peek at my computer though just to let friends on Facebook know that I wasn’t really there. I was supposed to go back the next day for a check up but was snowed in, so I had my next day and weekly check at the same time. Everything was fine and healing well. I was able to read every line of the wall chart across the room then the optician asked if I’d like to see what my eyesight was like before I’d had the correction. He held two round glass lenses in front of my eyes and I was blind; I couldn’t even see the board, let alone read anything on it!
"It is the best thing I’ve ever done."
"I wish I’d done it years ago."
I have to wear reading glasses for close work but that is nothing. It’s just an age thing.
"I can see clearly again."
Tuesday, 23 February 2010
Going Home
A sea-battered cluster of rocks flung by a giant hand
A necklace of blacks, greys, greens, browns nestling in a sandy bed
Surrounded by crashing surf, bent by relentless winds and lashed by icy rain
Or lapped by gentle waves, kissed by warm breezes and caressed by the lightest rain
Spring brings the discerning lovers of balmy days, fields of yellow daffodils
The calm before the stampede
The walkers, nature lovers, itinerant workers
Who do not mind the sudden showers, sunny days and violent storms
In Summer visitors flock like migrating birds
Flooding the five islands, each with their different characteristics
Looking for a break from their frantic lives
They disperse between the islands to find sparsly populated beaches on which to relax
Autumn is the bridge between summer and winter
Grey and foggy some days, sunshine inbetween
Boats are brought ashore for refitting, either congregating in the boat park
Or dotted about the island in deserted fields
Winter shows the islands at their most desolate
The bleak landscape is unchanged by rain, wind and unexpected sunny days
The constant buffeting jeopardises the movement of aircraft and boats
Essential lifelines needed for survival as everything arrives and departs this way
This is where I was born and grew up
I do not choose to live there now, nor do I want to
But my parents are still there, so when I go back it’s not for a holiday
I’m going home.
Saturday, 9 January 2010
Train Trip
Getting on the train at the first stop and seeing a forest of reserved tickets should have alerted me to the fact that the train was going to be busy. Instead of picking an unreserved seat, the obviously sensible course of action, I picked a seat that was reserved from my destination, Cardiff, or so I thought. As more and more passengers claimed their reservations, evicting hapless travellers from their seats, it wasn't very long before my turn was up. So, I grabbed my bag, squeezed past the person in the outside seat, pulled my coat from the rack above and joined the mass of seat-less passengers swaying in the narrow walkway. At the next stop it was all change, as everyone had to do the soft shoe shuffle to get off, on, or grab an empty seat.
I was pushed, shoved and attacked by 'ankle-biter' cases on wheels that were being dragged around with no regard for anyones' ankles and I ended up in the space between carriages, just outside the conductor's carriage. Some-one offered me one of the fold-down seats and I felt as though I was waiting outside the Headmaster's office for a good telling off! This small space was getting more and more crowded with young men clutching large cardboard cups of a Starbucks liquid. Eye to eye (so to speak) with some strange guy's crotch was not good a good place to be.
That was only a short trip. My next one was longer and involved three changes. Stupidly, I wore cowboy boots with a heel. Luggage consisted of my small ankle-biter and a well filled soft bag, both heavy. "Please mind the gap between the train and the platform" became a dreaded mantra; getting off the train was an insight into human behaviour. I can't see the point of gathering round the door of a train waiting to get on before the passengers have got off. My solution was to throw my luggage onto the platform, gingerly negotiate the aforementioned gap in the heels, then march off through the crowd dragging my luggage and leaving people picking themselves up off the platform. Getting on was a bit more problematical, because being well mannered (well, until provoked!) and practical i.e. letting people get off the train before I attempted to get on, meant I was pushed and shoved to the back. Preferable, I suppose, than ending up on the rails. Again I perfected a technique of throwing the ankle-biter on first, and pulling myself up by the rail dragging the bag (those darned boots again).
Reaching my destination I was then pushing against the crowd who were rushing for the connecting train, and, being twice as wide with luggage, getting stuck in the station doors. For the home journey I packed the heels, wore soft boots and balanced the soft bag on top of the wheelie. One lives, learns and collects bruises.
I was pushed, shoved and attacked by 'ankle-biter' cases on wheels that were being dragged around with no regard for anyones' ankles and I ended up in the space between carriages, just outside the conductor's carriage. Some-one offered me one of the fold-down seats and I felt as though I was waiting outside the Headmaster's office for a good telling off! This small space was getting more and more crowded with young men clutching large cardboard cups of a Starbucks liquid. Eye to eye (so to speak) with some strange guy's crotch was not good a good place to be.
That was only a short trip. My next one was longer and involved three changes. Stupidly, I wore cowboy boots with a heel. Luggage consisted of my small ankle-biter and a well filled soft bag, both heavy. "Please mind the gap between the train and the platform" became a dreaded mantra; getting off the train was an insight into human behaviour. I can't see the point of gathering round the door of a train waiting to get on before the passengers have got off. My solution was to throw my luggage onto the platform, gingerly negotiate the aforementioned gap in the heels, then march off through the crowd dragging my luggage and leaving people picking themselves up off the platform. Getting on was a bit more problematical, because being well mannered (well, until provoked!) and practical i.e. letting people get off the train before I attempted to get on, meant I was pushed and shoved to the back. Preferable, I suppose, than ending up on the rails. Again I perfected a technique of throwing the ankle-biter on first, and pulling myself up by the rail dragging the bag (those darned boots again).
Reaching my destination I was then pushing against the crowd who were rushing for the connecting train, and, being twice as wide with luggage, getting stuck in the station doors. For the home journey I packed the heels, wore soft boots and balanced the soft bag on top of the wheelie. One lives, learns and collects bruises.
Tuesday, 15 December 2009
What does Christmas mean to you?
I have just been to a carol service. OK, you might say, it is Christmas.
But what will it be like on the day? 4am, 5am, 6 or even 7, if you are lucky, screams of delight will be echoing through the land, followed either by 'oh wow look at this', or 'but I didn't want one of these', or 'Father Christmas promised me....', or 'it's not working, are there any batteries?' Then tears as something gets broken. Wrapping paper and plastic containers will be scattered round bedrooms and lounges as one present is followed by another.
Cut to lunch. Family, parents and in-laws, a deadly combination at any time, but with three women in the kitchen the turkey is not going to be the only thing attacked by the carving knife. Steam everywhere, sprouts not ready, spuds starting to go dark brown at the edges, and shouts of 'come and get this wretched bird out of the oven 'cos I can't lift it'. Then, with everyone sitting around the table, ma-in-law pipes up with 'where's the gravy?'
Cut to after lunch. Men, ma and ma-in-law are dozing in front of the 54" wide screen, dipping into the tins of sweets, while a silently fuming daughter is trying to bring some order to the kitchen which looks like the aftermath of a mini twister. Then various snacks and mince pies appear and no-one dares move for fear of internal combustion. The Queen's speech is drowned by snoring.
Cut to tea. Turkey sarnies. Turkey pasties. A buffet of meats, salads, gateaux, Christmas cake, you name it and it will appear. And after tea - oh joy, family games. Cards, Monopoly, Scrabble, Twister, the list goes on. Then, full of e-numbers, chocolate and alcohol the visitors depart, dragging screaming kids
Repeat on Boxing Day, usually with friends or more relatives.
I know this all sounds somewhat cynical but I have experienced it myself, though not all at the same time! And a lot of families have perfectly civil and enjoyable days.
Back to the Carol Service. For me, this is what Christmas is all about. The birth of a child who changed the world, and in the aftermath of his life on earth, still is. During Advent four taper candles, three purple and one pink, are lit, one every Sunday, and a larger white candle on Christmas Day. The purple represents repentance and the pink joy. Eucharists are held at various times and in different churches on Christmas eve.
Symbolism perhaps, but a reminder of whose birth we are celebrating, as we would any other birthday. Perhaps commercialism has overshadowed the real reason for the festival but the baby in the manger isn't going anywhere; The true message of Christmas has inspired every generation since. He might get buried under piles of wrapping paper and food but he won't get thrown out with the garbage. Jesus Christ is here to stay :)
But what will it be like on the day? 4am, 5am, 6 or even 7, if you are lucky, screams of delight will be echoing through the land, followed either by 'oh wow look at this', or 'but I didn't want one of these', or 'Father Christmas promised me....', or 'it's not working, are there any batteries?' Then tears as something gets broken. Wrapping paper and plastic containers will be scattered round bedrooms and lounges as one present is followed by another.
Cut to lunch. Family, parents and in-laws, a deadly combination at any time, but with three women in the kitchen the turkey is not going to be the only thing attacked by the carving knife. Steam everywhere, sprouts not ready, spuds starting to go dark brown at the edges, and shouts of 'come and get this wretched bird out of the oven 'cos I can't lift it'. Then, with everyone sitting around the table, ma-in-law pipes up with 'where's the gravy?'
Cut to after lunch. Men, ma and ma-in-law are dozing in front of the 54" wide screen, dipping into the tins of sweets, while a silently fuming daughter is trying to bring some order to the kitchen which looks like the aftermath of a mini twister. Then various snacks and mince pies appear and no-one dares move for fear of internal combustion. The Queen's speech is drowned by snoring.
Cut to tea. Turkey sarnies. Turkey pasties. A buffet of meats, salads, gateaux, Christmas cake, you name it and it will appear. And after tea - oh joy, family games. Cards, Monopoly, Scrabble, Twister, the list goes on. Then, full of e-numbers, chocolate and alcohol the visitors depart, dragging screaming kids
Repeat on Boxing Day, usually with friends or more relatives.
I know this all sounds somewhat cynical but I have experienced it myself, though not all at the same time! And a lot of families have perfectly civil and enjoyable days.
Back to the Carol Service. For me, this is what Christmas is all about. The birth of a child who changed the world, and in the aftermath of his life on earth, still is. During Advent four taper candles, three purple and one pink, are lit, one every Sunday, and a larger white candle on Christmas Day. The purple represents repentance and the pink joy. Eucharists are held at various times and in different churches on Christmas eve.
Symbolism perhaps, but a reminder of whose birth we are celebrating, as we would any other birthday. Perhaps commercialism has overshadowed the real reason for the festival but the baby in the manger isn't going anywhere; The true message of Christmas has inspired every generation since. He might get buried under piles of wrapping paper and food but he won't get thrown out with the garbage. Jesus Christ is here to stay :)
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