Christmas Notes and a Gallic Preoccupation.

Two hours to go and then another Christmas will have come, been negotiated, and gone. I count them every year and wonder how many more there will be. I expect there’s a number written on a celestial slate somewhere out in the vastness of the universe, and I suppose it’s better that I can’t see it.

I just watched Amelie again. It always makes me feel better for a short period, and it’s not just the story itself which I find compelling, nor the loveliness and personal charm of Audrey Tautou; it’s that quirky Gallic humour which is rich, offbeat, and often quietly reveals some odd little corner of the human mind.

I recently heard an American ask why we in Britain call 26^th December ‘Boxing Day.’ I gather it’s because well off people used to be in the habit of taking unwanted gifts and food, packing them up in boxes, and taking them to the local poor. It’s nothing to do with pugilism.

Although I tend to feel my aloneness a little more keenly at Christmas, I much prefer that to the unwelcome duty of visiting or entertaining the in-laws every 25^th December. I suppose many people like that sort of thing; Christmas is, after all, supposed to be about togetherness. I was never the togetherness sort; all I ever wanted to do was have something special for dinner, curl up in front of a TV to watch Ghostbusters, Harry Potter, or 101 Dalmatians, (or Amelie) and get quietly and safely sozzled.

And that reminds me: the bottle of port which serves as a well-rationed pre-dinner extravagance at Christmas is getting old. There was a disturbing quantity of sludge in the bottom of today’s libation, so I suppose I’ll have to buy another one next year (as long as my number hasn’t come up.)

I need to visit several places in Ashbourne tomorrow and we’re due to have another named storm system coming through. We seem to be getting about one a week at the moment. I expect we’ll have rivers for roads and pond-studded fields again, and it’s becoming a little irritating. The new growth of winter wheat and barley is looking very patchy in a way I’ve never seen it before. I imagine it’s all due to the waterlogged ground. City dwellers don’t notice that sort of thing as much, you know. Living in the countryside makes you a lot more aware of the seasons and its latter day excesses. And I expect there’s worse to come over the next decade or so.

Watching Amelie makes me wish I’d been able to keep up my French when I was making a good stab at learning it back in the eighties. No opportunity to practice it, though, and now I’m too old a dog to learn new tricks. Sorry, Gallic chums, and thanks to those who speak my language fluently. It’s a little ironic, isn’t it, that English has come to be termed the lingua franca – ‘Frankish language.’ If I were French, I think I’d be a bit miffed.

That’s about it for this Christmas, so what shall I do now? Coffee, I think (which happens to be Sainsbury’s French Blend by an odd coincidence) and then carry on with Tenant. I’m nearly at the end and reading it has been an odd sort of journey. It’s a big novel and the going underfoot has been a mixture of firm, soft, and downright swampy at times. I’ll continue to persevere until I reach the terminus, and then maybe offer a note on the experience here.