A Christmas Eve Ramble.

It’s Christmas Eve and I can’t think of anything to write about. I want to write something… I do… so I’m going to sit here and ramble about whatever comes into my head. OK? OK.

I think I should say ‘thank you’ to all those people who not only drop onto my blog, but also take the time and trouble to comment. What pleases me most is the quality of the people who do that. I’ve noticed, you see, that there is a culture of obsequiousness abroad in the blogosphere. There are those who appear to regard it as a forum for mutual and effusive praise, whether warranted or not. I don’t get that sort. When I’m offered praise, it sound earnest; but I don’t just get praise. Sometimes people round on me, sometimes they disagree with me (thereby forcing me into extended argument or explanation, which I find irritating because I’m lazy,) sometimes they point out some fact or detail which I’ve got wrong. That’s good; it’s how it should be. So thank you.

I had to go out today, partly to get a few extra food items to see me through to my next shopping trip on Friday, but also to buy a new vacuum cleaner. The one I’ve had for about ten years – which was a very good one – chose yesterday to become number whatever-it-is on the list of Things That Have Gone Wrong and Needed to be Replaced in 2012. This year has been a bit of a drain on my bank balance. But anyway, what I noticed again today was what I’ve been noticing all my life – that young women always look prettier at Christmas. I’ve a strong suspicion that it’s a pagan thing.

And here’s something odd: the young woman on the checkout where I bought my food items looked remarkably like Lady Number 2 in my Frog Song post – the one who wasn’t at home when I rang. I was going to ask her to elope with me, you know. I was – really. When I saw her a few months later and told her all about it, she said she probably would have done so because she was just in the mood for eloping with me. Ha! Fancy that. A whole different road in life fallen into the abyss through the simple accident of one person having been out of the house at the wrong – or right – time. It would have all ended in tears, I’m sure. There was some chemistry there, but we weren’t really suited. Nevertheless, it made me slightly wistful to see her young double all these years on, charging me £2.45 for some bread, milk, potatoes and porridge oats. Life can be hilarious sometimes, can’t it?

I watched some of two adaptations of A Christmas Carol this evening. One was the old Alastair Sim version made in the 1950s, and the other was the latest Jim Carey Pixar version. The latter was quite spectacular in parts, but it didn’t hold a candle to the old one for charm.

Dickens was a funny bloke. He obviously had a big heart, but he just didn’t know where to draw the line in expressing it. There’s a huge gulf between strong, understated sentiment, and the overstated kind that’s so mawkish you want to get hold of Tiny freggin’ Tim, boil him with his own pudding, and bury him with a stake through his heart. He could tug at your emotional strings given the right treatment, but in Dickens’s overly zealous hands, he becomes quite a revolting little creature.

In Jane Eyre, Jane Eyre has found her long-lost family and is very happy, but she still misses Mr Rochester dreadfully. She’s now feeling somewhat overawed by the strong, taciturn, Grecian-visaged St John Rivers. He’s a bit of a cold fish, is St John. I’m hoping that Mr R is going to ride over there, call him a cad, and biff him on the nose. It’s a good nose, apparently, but that’s no excuse. I like Jane. I think I’m supposed to. And by the way, just in case anybody doesn’t know, St John isn’t pronounced St John when it’s a personal name. It’s pronounced Sinjun.

I think I should quite like to eat the last of my mince pies now. I start the Christmas cake tomorrow. I have five Christmas cards and two presents.

Happy Christmas, if you’re interested in such a notion.