Self-Winding · A Sort of Progression

A Happy Christmas to all. Back soon.

I've just finished all the Christmas stuff, took the last cards and parcel to post this afternoon. Thank the Lord, it gets to be more of a chore each time. If the moaning in the queue was anything to go by, everyone's fed up with the procedure but can't bring themselves to stop. A woman told me about her grandson, apparently last year she gave her daughter's family an Oxfam charity "present" of money for livestock in an African village. The kid rang her up yesterday and said "By the way Nan, I hope you aren't giving us a goat." I rather admire his honesty, I'm sure I would have felt the same at his age.

Sellotape is so evil, I get it stuck everywhere but where it's supposed to go. I was looking at one pretty red parcel I'd wrapped on the kitchen table and noticed that I'd taped a cluster of orange lentils to the box - G.was making soup at the time.

Oh, I do love my Neece, a real character. Her Vital Stats meme is very vital indeed. The book's wonderful.

Colonel Jim is still with us until just after Christmas due to unforseen circumstances, tomorrow we take him out for his farewell lunch. Because he likes silly things, I've been working on (instead of blogging) a small book for him called "A Little Collection of Jims" - using one basic photograph and re-jigging it twelve times in Photoshop: I particularly like this one. The 'in drag' ones are a hoot, but I'd better not publish them, you don't do that to kernels.

Half listening to some garden tips on the radio, I was intrigued to hear them highly recommend Beirut roses. Strong plants, excellent in all varieties. I'd never heard of them before. Seemed an unlikely provenance. Only later did I realise what they were talking about. Another for my collection of mis-hears - my favourite is still the cedar fences on the Norfolk coast.

I have already had to print out three copies of the Pinter acceptance speech, everyone I pass it to wants to keep it give to someone else. All want to discuss it. To one friend it is the vitriolic diatribe of a dying man. He resents Pinter's assessment of our status with the USA as "..its own bleating little lamb tagging behind it on a lead, the pathetic and supine Great Britain." To John the special relationship isn't a myth, we are allies, our history is tightly related, we stepped up, we were not dragged. Myself and most of the others find it magnificent, disturbing, dramatic, passionate for the truth. It will undoubtedly join the catalogue of the world's most important speeches.

You will probably enjoy a look at the Skarabej Online Museum of Old Family Photographs - I especially love the wedding pictures, this one from Croatia is touching, the first time I've seen a lady in a wedding group wearing an apron. It's possible to use all the images as email postcards.

See, I lead a colourful life. I have never seen anything like this in December - all the beech and oakwoods around here are still russet gold and yellow. I saw a pendulous birch today in full leaf. We have had several frosts and high wind, but still they hold on. The UK is beginning to mount a challenge to New England in the fall department.

By the way, I have an awful stiff neck, it gets worse when I type and sit at the computer. I have done a bit of email and flickr stuff tonight, but can't wait to get that pillow under the old head. It was caused by a draughty car window, I think.

We left early with Vince and Lindsay by coach to the Lincoln Christmas Market - a huge 4-day event that pulls in crowds of thousands from all over the UK and abroad. The historic town centre is cordoned off and hundreds of craft and food stalls, fun fairs and street performances stretch for a mile from the cathedral to the castle courtyard and down Steep Hill.

Stallholders are in fancy dress, the air is full of the smell of mulled wine, roast chestnuts, frying things. There are so many people that one shuffles along - but cheerfully - the mood is light, people assume jesters' hats and flashing wobblers. They sing along to the different threads of music drifting from all corners, nose-flutes and pan-pipes, trad jazz, Bach on recorders, barrel organs, solo singers with hats at their feet. Screams come at regular intervals from the Death Fall ride that towers above the square. Lanes of boutiques sell everything between gaudy tat and arty snobware - they are on a bonanza.

In the cathedral a brass band in bright blue plays carols to tired people with their shoes off under pew seats; a large fur giraffe peeks over a tombstone and sweet lady ushers direct stragglers to wine and coffee in the chantry. I long to take pictures of children lighting candles, their faces lit as in a de la Tour painting, but it would be crass to interrupt their concentration.

As the dusk comes, a sea of lights glitters everywhere, the cathedral facade is lit by soft orange light that enriches its sandstone to near Petra effect. Slowly the huge crowds ebb towards the pick-up points designated for coaches; jolly policemen in acid lemon jackets herd them along past houses and neighbourhood shops. In bright windows families sit at supper or television, surely glad to be at the end of such an invasion, pleased as the red lights of the last coach vanish in the distance.

There's a set of photos at flickr

The builders came back today for the fourth time of recall. We have had many troubles with this new bathroom - chipped tiles, crooked taps, gloss sealant applied to matt tiles, grey grout in cream floor, wobbly lav' et al. It has taken forever too. I hate and dread the whole process of dealing with workmen, and these are really nice guys too. You start off as the friendly coffee maiden and finish as the picky old bag who expects that wrong things will get put right. I still have a grand in my back pocket which I shall not un-bung until I am satisfied, I'm getting good at this.