On Christmas Turkeys and Other Creatures.

I just realised one big advantage with being a prize curmudgeon who doesn’t do Christmas.

When I was a kid my parents had some friends called the Greenwoods, and every year they used to come over for tea on Christmas Day. My stepfather and Mr Greenwood would engage in manly discussions about the weather and the value of maintaining the gold standard, but the real delight came from listening to my mother and Mrs Greenwood talk about turkey.

‘This turkey’s nice, Irene,’ would begin the evening’s ascent into enlightening discourse.

Yes it is, very nice.

‘Sometimes turkey can be a bit dry.’

I know. Really dry.’

‘Ours was bit dry last Christmas.’

Was it?

‘Yes.’

I can’t stand dry turkey.

‘Me neither.’

How was yours this Christmas?

‘Oh, not too bad.’

Not too dry, then?

‘I’ve known worse.’

You get a lot of meals out of a turkey, so it’s better not being dry.

‘You’re right there. But this turkey’s nice.’

Yes it is, very nice.

Every year – and that was the bowdlerised version. Hence the advantage of becoming a reclusive vegetarian: turkeys are suddenly your friends and you don’t care whether they’re dry or not.

*  *  *

Meanwhile, I was outside Tesco today, having just used the cash point, when I felt something nudging my leg. I looked down to see that the culprit was a bulldog with a woman in tow.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said the woman, ‘he just wants to make friends.’

Well, few things are more well met than a dog who just wants to make friends, and so make friends we did. And then I said the darndest thing:

‘You don’s see many bulldogs these days – used to be the symbol of Britain.’

Well, what an embarrassment. It’s the sort of thing a Nigel Farage supporter might utter before proceeding into full flow with ‘Go to London these days and it’s a case of spot the white man.’ I only intended an innocent remark to make light conversation, but the fact that the woman agreed enthusiastically only made matters worse.

I changed the subject hurriedly to something I don’t recall, and then took my leave with thoughts of French cockerels, Russian bears, American eagles and Australian kangaroos running through my head. My mind is oft awry these days, but rarely to that extent.

*  *  *

And none of that has anything to do with Christmas, of course. It’s just that I heard Blackmore’s Night singing Way to Mandalay earlier and it put me in an uncharacteristically good mood. I particularly like the guitar bit at the end (I was going to type ‘riff’ but didn’t want to show off.)