It's raining out there. In here though, the light's low, there is a glass of crisp ginger wine glinting, and Herbie Hancock's tenor saxophonist is warbling out of a Spotify playlist like there's no tomorrow.
It's a lovely end to a Boxing Day, and I suppose, to the Two Days of Christmas.
The first day began at midnight, in a cold stone church, lit by candles. The vicar, dressed in white like a holy lab technician, instructed the villagers to 'share the peace' ... and so we all shook hands with as many people as possible with whom we felt comfortable saying 'peace be with you', which is of course, what you do.
I shook hands with a man in a bright red Christmas-pudding jumper. Then, rather uncomfortably, I turned and shook hands with a guy who stared at me with anything but peace. I tried my best to smile and say 'and also with you'.
The bubbly choir mistress appeared next to me. She was dressed in the bright blue robes of a Christmas chorister, much as the others were, mingling at the front.
"I know who you are," she beamed as we shook hands. I did my best not to look puzzled, but there was very little time to make it awkward. "When are you going to come and sing with us?" she asked, excitedly. I smiled and said 'Maybe one day'
I rather like that this midnight communion has become part of tradition for me now. At the end, when the carols were sung and the liturgy was complete, I shook hands with the lab technicians and the bescarfed curate, and I ambled back to the Intrepids' house for Christmas.
-
Over the years, I've worked out a bit of a scale to gage my Dad's response to a gift. If he says, "Oh that's excellent," then you've absolutely hit it and he will be 'chuffed' later, once he's finished playing with it, setting it up, or skim-reading the back. If he says, "Hmm... okay," then it really could go either way. However, if he says "Whatever is it?" as he has done on multiple occasions, then you are in trouble.
I watched him unlace the red ribbon and unfold the paper that I'd wrapped his surprise gift in. It was a portable anemometer, a wind-measuring device. I thought it would add a little extra interest to his weather conversations. I was banking on it being as popular as the gold-rimmed barometer that was an 'excellent' winner a few years ago, or the plastic rain-gage that still sits collecting water in the garden. He unflapped the cardboard of the box and pulled out the device.
"Whatever is it?" he said. I'm hoping it will come into its own once they're on their cruise.
-
I went for a walk in the afternoon. It was moody and windy. I loved it. The wind bent the branches, and roared magnificently through the leaves by the golf course. I shouted into it, knowing that no-one would ever hear me. That little moment of isolation has easily been one of my favourite moments this Christmas.
I got back and had some tea with the Intrepids. Then we played a couple of word-games. I learned that 'basorexia' is the urge to kiss and that 'bromatology' is the study of food. I reflected later, on the Christmas Dinner we'd cooked that had been so good I could have kissed it, and realised that those two facts were not inappropriate.
-
Boxing Day of course, is the day when the wider family get together in an ocean of wrapping paper, cups of tea, and bits of Lego. We did that. The Niblings were as excitable as imagined, though this year they were all trying to synchronise their tablets so that they could play some sort of battle game. That meant that I avoided being shot by nerf guns or poked by sonic screwdrivers for at least the first hour.
The gifts all went down well, I think. The conversation turned to Brexit, Trump, the colour of passports, and various conspiracy theories, as predictably as ever it could. It wasn't entirely predictable though...
"The trees tell me they don't like being decorated," said my oldest sister, glancing at the Christmas tree in the corner. There was a short silence. Then someone asked her what she meant.
"They tell me! They don't like being planted in rows either," she continued. So then, it emerges, my sister talks to trees, and they talk back. Although it's all done on feelings apparently.
"Are you sure you're not projecting your own emotions onto them?" I asked. She said that she didn't think so, because she herself, quite likes the look of a decorated tree. I wasn't in the mood to point out that that didn't exempt her from projecting an imagined feeling, even if she didn't share it herself. She seems to have developed a curious affinity for conspiracies. And all things leafy.
-
It's been relaxed then! And now, in the warm afterglow of all that, Herbie and his pals are riffing and the rain is pattering on the window. I think I said last year that I'd quite like the day when I'm sitting in front of a roaring fire on a cold winter's night, sipping something warm, while my grown-up nephews chat about life by the light of the flickering flames. They're not ready to know it yet, but peace will come.
I think at the heart of that is the idea that peace can be 'with you', wherever you take it, even if you miss the mark with a gift as I did, or you find out that your sister is erm... chatting to the forest... in her spare time. It doesn't really matter, as long as there's peace with us. And at this time of the year, it's my desire to be surrounded by people who live out the 'and also with you'.
And I think mostly, we do - which is rather a nice thought.
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