An alternative Christmas

I blame the reindeer.

For a start Rudolf was running in the lead on dipped headlights, something that is not allowed in the Sleigh: Lighting and speed limits when fully loaded. regulations from the DVLA in Swansea. He should have had his eponymous nose on full beam, especially as this was the night before Christmas Eve as Santa was trying to get ahead of himself. They were running late so were carelessly going too fast for the prevailing conditions and, it is thought, some of Santa’s sherry had been shared out a little too liberally between the too dear at the front. Santa was, of course in overall charge and responsible for the safe distribution of presents around the world but he had understandably delegated the responsibility to his lead reindeer during the long hop across the Atlantic so that he could get some rest.

They came to an abrupt halt above 22 Railway Terrace when Rudolf slipped on one of the solar panels and got his left ear lopped off by the wind turbine clamped to the chimney that was whizzing around in the East wind - the windmill that is, not the chimney. The solar panel now had a broken circuit so that cut the power to the ground source heat pump. The windmill blade was bent by its collision with Rudolf’s ear and was now making a strange noise as it rotated out of balance., so it had to be feathered and shut down.

Santa prepared to slide down the chimney when he realised that Dad was busy adjusting the feed of wood pellets to the eco boiler so the chimney route was out of the question. Santa consulted his year book for advice on an alternative route. The new health and safety advice precluded all roofly adventures and advised that the sack of presents should be left outside the front door. Santa was glad to comply as he now had a chance of catching up on his schedule - even with Rudolf’s medical problem - he navigated by eye, not ear. Rudolf didn’t want to be left ‘ear so he was chomping at his bit to get moving.

Santa yelled ‘giddup’ and the laden sleigh was on its way.

Dad finished setting up the eco boiler and then got a ladder from the shed to start repairing the solar panels. ‘Pesky reindeer,’ he muttered as he climbed the ladder. ‘ I don’t know why they don’t do away with powered transport and used gliding sleighs. Doesn’t Elf and Safety have anything to say about that?’

The older daughter, Daphne, came out to watch Dad. ‘Don’t jump off the roof, Dad. You’ll make a hole in the yard.’

‘Yes, I know, Mother’s been planting petunias.’ said Dad, looking for his pliers in his utility belt.

The solar panels were fixed and back to their winter output of 2 kilowatts, restoring power to the ground source heat pump so the house started warming up. This was the good news, as was the fact that the composting toilet was now back in use. The bad news was that the wind turbine was in a bad way and a new set of fan blades would be required.

Dad climbed down from the roof, just in time to see, and hear, the Salvation Army carol singers turn up - complete with their trademark oompah band. The were singing the pizza carol, you know, the one that has the line  ‘deep pan crisp and even’ - it always brought a tear to Dad’s eye, especially as he was feeling hungry after his high level work. Daphne put a penny in the old man’s - he was playing the euphonium - hat and they went in for their tea. This was a casserole that had been slowly cooking in the straw bain-marie all day - please don’t ask what meat it was, they were all feeling a little traumatised by the thought of the killing to come.

After dinner they all went out to do their allotted chores, feed and water the pigs and chickens, bring in some pellets for the eco boiler and kill the turkey that had been fattening up all year, ready for their Christmas Dinner. It was cold on the fingers harvesting the sprouts, as they were covered in ice. They had dug enough potatoes the previous week so now all they had to do was to pluck the turkey. It didn’t have a name as they knew from the previous year that that calling a turkey ‘Harriet’ made it too personal a killing - almost murder in fact. They set to, pretending this was just another turkey. The anonymous turkey was soon plucked, stuffed and ready for the oven. They spent the rest of the evening decorating the Christmas tree with paper chains carefully made from the paper strips with organic glue they had swapped at the WI sale for a bucket of sprouts. The tree, of course, was one carefully dug up from the garden, complete with roots. It had lasted for five years so far and soon would be too big to bring indoors. It was already a bit of a chore digging a hole big enough for it in the garden each January. It was also starting to encroach on the vegetable patch.

The presents then had to be wrapped, using the paper and string saved from last year of course - none of that new fangled sellotape stuff that stuck to everything, except the right thing in the right place. The family was tired by now so they trooped up to bed - leaving Dad to bring Santa’s sack in from the front porch and Mum to distribute the parcels under the tree.

Daphne was woken first by the two younger children, Elf and Safe who were very excited and clamoured to be allowed downstairs to see if Santa had been. Daphne negotiated with them; they could go downstairs and look at their presents but none could be opened until the morning chores had been completed and breakfast had been fully eaten.

They quickly hoovered up their porridge and home made yogurt and then renewed their demands to open their presents. Mum and Dad had sleepily stumbled downstairs by this time. Dad pleaded for time to make some of their coffee substitute, made from the acorns from five acre wood - the pannage pigs didn’t approve - then gave in to the children’s demands.

There were soon the sounds of cutting of string and tearing of paper, in spite of the parent’s pleas to carefully fold up the paper for next year. What five year old concerns themselves with next year? It is so far in the future that it doesn’t exist.

What delights lay in store for them, hidden within the folds of recycled, battered, Christmas wrapping paper. Miniature garden implements were greeted with squeals of delight, packets of seed were discovered with joyous cries and as for recipes for ‘ delicious dishes created from your garden harvest’! There could be nothing better.

Mum was pleased with her wool vouchers and Dad was delighted with his farm shop vouchers. that entitled him to ‘pick your own manure.’

It was now time to embark on the Six Days of Turkey. Christmas day - turkey giblet soup, roast turkey of course, the plates piled high with home grown most things, potatoes, sprouts, chestnut stuffing, home made miniature sausages wrapped in home cure bacon followed by Mum’s special Christmas pudding and sips of the sloe gin that was now coming up to ten years old.

Tomorrow would be cold turkey cuts, home made pickles, beetroot and walnut, and cold roasties.

The third day of turkey would be the same, except with mash potatoes , as would be the fourth.

The fifth day of turkey would be the trimmings from the carcass made into a curry and the grande finale on the sixth day of turkey would be the bones, boiled up all day then strained off to give a wonderful turkey stock which was added to a vegetable casserole.

The turkey bones were then ground up as bone meal fertiliser for next years vegetables. The turkey feathers were, of course used in the home made duvets. The family said that the only thing that wasn’t wasted from the turkey was its gobble - and they all missed that until the fertilised turkey eggs hatched and a dozen chicks started their year-long journey to next Christmas through the cycle of the year.

Alice

I was surprised when my promotion came through as I had been Princess of Shovels for so long that I had got comfortable in the role, used to shopping in Sainsburys etc. That is not to say I wasn’t grateful, my elevation to the aristocracy years before had been more of a jump. It suited me very well. Coming from the superior Spades family I was used to being treated well, even though I did do most of my shopping in Aldi. It took me a long time to shuffle up through the suit from number two.

It took me some time to settle in to my new role. I was now Queen of Spades, not the top of the suit, that belonged to Ace of course, but I was well on the way. I think the main thing that took me a while to get used to was shopping in Waitrose. It wasn’t just the general obsequiousness of the staff or even the ridiculous prices, it was mainly the other customers - what a stuck up pack! All picture cards and the occasional Ace. I quite fancy some of the Aces but that is another story - do you really think I am a bungalow?

Anyway, as I had nearly filled my twee little trolley with gazpacho, halloumi, Italian black olives, smoked salmon, freshly baked Focaccia, Manuka honey and few other essentials, I headed for the checkout, looking very smart in his apron printed with black and white squares. It must have been cold sitting there among all those draughts and he looked a little board.

He beeped all my shopping before packing it into my trendy hessian recyclable shopping bag and I handed over my card. By some strange coincidence it was the Queen of Clubs, one of the lower suits but I am broad minded, I’ll talk to anyone. There was to be no cashback for me today. We now had a pear, avocado of course, so I took the complimentary partridge from the tree, collected my little green tokens and dropped them in the box for the undeserving poor - one of my favourite charities.

The automatic doors chuffed back at me as I walked out into the street, they must have got them second-hand from Captain Kirk - very enterprising.

The game had been set for that afternoon, poets and peasants alliteration at the Peardrop, so the pear of us hopped aboard a chicken and chooked on our way. It wasn’t far, just a couple of furlongs up the hill past the Strangled Ferret. We passed two fur shorts on the way, probably German. We decided to pay by the perch as the rod and pole were both busy and the chicken was happier with the perch anyway because it was quite a jolly fish. She carped on quite a lot about some of the salmon rods  but, strangely enough, she never mentioned the Poles during the ride. She had a lot to say about the Latvians though - typical cabbie gossip. I made small talk with the other Queen, well, one has to make an effort with one’s social inferiors doesn’t one? She had been a Queen for a long time, passed over by now probably, so she was well used to playing the game. I picked up some good tips from her without letting her know that I hadn’t played before.

I chose my cue carefully as it doesn’t pay to get there too early. We did the usual test to see who would break, it was the other Queen of course, she had more experience. She potted a Spot with the break so I helped her out of the pool and then repaired the break. It was a Gloucester Old one so I had the choice of the piglets. I picked up a couple because we were having bacon and egg for supper. I had only decided this on the ride up the hill. Luckily the chicken decided to cooperate. She would probably dine out on that story for donkey’s years. ‘I laid an egg for the Queen of Spades,’ making a right ass of herself, as no one then believed her. Have you ever seen an ass lay an egg?

I managed to get the piglets in the Waitrose bag and got a lift from the donkey back to the castle. I had tried to get some ham from the Gloucester Old Spot but she wasn’t committed enough to contribute to our meal so I had to make do with smoked salmon sausages. The piglets were feeling a little cold by now so I wrapped them in a duvet as a substitute for pigs in blankets and put them in the oven to keep warm; on the top shelf; on Gas Mark 7. What did I do with the donkey? I got very annoyed as it started to ‘Eee Aaw’ very loudly so I went to the local church at Brambletye to see the Vicar of Bray, who lived in Lewisham. He suggested that I paint its fur so that it looked like a zebra and then hide it on a crossing. This didn’t work as I got the stripes the wrong way round and so the donkey stood out on the crossing, looking like a draughts board. Luckily a woman from Waitrose’s Human Resource department was passing at the time and offered it a job on the checkout. ‘Well, I suppose that will have to do till I can get a proper job,’ sighed the donkey.

‘Ungrateful creature, it ill behooved him to complain after all I had done for him,’ I thought.

I checked on the piglets to see if they were warm enough. They were now crackling nicely so I stuffed an apple in each of their mouths ready for the table. The cat was by now looking interested and stared at me. ‘A cat may look at a king,’ I said, ‘but I am a queen so you may not look at me.’ The cat smiled and slowly faded away to Aintree, leaving its smile behind.

I left the kitchen and climbed the stairs to the castle’s parapets, which were kept on the roof. There were several dogs, tortoises and goldfish up there. It was very unusual to have so many disabled animals to care for but I suppose if you are a dog, a tortoise or a goldfish and fall off a castle, there is a good chance that you will get injured. One poor tortoise, ‘Falling George’, took so long to climb all the stone steps back up again that, as soon as he got there, it was time for him to fall off again. Because of all his injuries, he took to drink and now has the hare of the dog each morning after his porridge. The dog wasn’t too keen as he was going bald but George was usually too quick for him and if he didn’t quite make it, the hare would pluck one for him. All the animals seemed ok, except for George so I headed for the counting house where my husband, the King, had the spreadsheets open on his iMac. As usual, he ignored me at first, engrossed in his calculations. 

‘Did you have a good day, dear?’ I asked

‘Not three bad,’ he said, but I’m having trouble thinking because I’m hungry. ‘ I hope you’re making a blackbird pie for my supper tonight.’

‘I couldn't get any blackbirds in Waitrose and I couldn’t go into that common Sainsburys now, so I got two dozen frozen robins instead. I know Sainsburys have their uses now, not just for keeping the scum out of Waitrose.’

‘I don’t know, what is the world coming to? Did you complain in Waitrose?

‘Yes, I saw the manager and they are flying 144 blackbirds in next week.’

‘Good, but that will be too many for us, gross incompetence if you ask me,’

‘Yes, dear,’ I murmured placatorily as I backed out and fled to the parlour where I knew my Focaccia and Manuka were waiting for me.

I never did get to the parlour to eat my bread and honey as a blackbird in the garden had pecked off the maid’s nose. Luckily I found a jenny wren to put it back on again.

Then there was a knock on the portcullis, it was the queen of clubs wondering if I would like a game of golf. I could think of no excuse but I clearly didn’t want one of the lower order suits as a friend, even if she was a queen-I had plans. I put her off by saying that I had to think of a new way of making a pie for my husbands supper as I had run out of blackbirds and only had robins. She was a little upset and thought she had been dealt as part of a bad hand as she had gone to the trouble of carrying two full suits of clubs up the hill and she was a now a little red faced - a royal flush.

I quickly pulled up the drawbridge, crayoned it brown, bid three hearts and went to see the children, Prince and Princess Trowel. I could never remember their names, in fact, only the maid nose them… er that was until that dastardly blackbird did it’s evil work. Now I will have to call them ‘U’ and ‘U2’. They were the two princes in the tower, except that one was a princess.

I was now very pressed for time as I had to be in the Faery Forest during the afternoon. It was where I played out my Lady Bountiful role by volunteering for the Tree Watch foundation. We had found that, if no one was in the forest, then no trees fell and so it soon got badly overgrown. We had had notice of several incipient tree protofalls but, of course, nothing would happen unless someone was there. I had already asked my groom to saddle my horse for me. I had asked, and got, a horse for my last birthday by sighing to my husband, ‘ a horse, a horse, my queendom for a horse.’ He gave in and got me one, only 14 hands of course, he didn’t want me getting on my high horse, as the tree branches would knock me off. When my horse, Rover, saw me coming, he croaked at me in greeting. He had a sore throat and was a little horse - remember, 14 hands, huh?

We galloped off into the forest. It was badly overgrown so we couldn’t see the wood for the trees. Rover asked the way and the trees barked back in the same language - Timber sappiness. We soon arrived at the agreed meeting point which was as far as you could go in the forest - halfway in, as any further you were going out. We all watched in different directions while the trees  silently fell around us. The old story was at least half true.The waiting elephants gathered up the trunks and put them on, ready for a swim in the river.

Rover was quite tired by now so I got a lift back to castle with Dumbo, the brightest of the elephants. He couldn’t swim though, so had left his trunks behind. It was a rough ride as the Howdah was too tall to get under the trees so we had to activate the miniaturisation facility. Dumbo shrunk to about three inches tall and I was in proportion to him.This meant that we had great problems getting over the moat because the drawbridge was up and I couldn’t reach the intercom button to call the King. The portcullis was no obstacle as we just walked through one of the gaps. I got hit on the head by Falling George just when I thought I was safely inside. I don’t know if you have ever been hit on the head by a drunken tortoise falling from a great height but I can tell you it was no ride in the park, or in the forest, or to Waitrose. I took him back up to the roof, of course, where he was reunited with the other parapets. It took me a long time to get up the stairs, each step was like a cliff, 15 feet high to me - I had lost the miniaturisation reset button.

I struggled back down to the parlour where I enjoyed the Focaccia and Manuka - there was a lot so I couldn’t manage all of it.

I then struggled up to the counting house where the sheets were spread all over the floor with blankets on top and the King snoring mightily under both of them. Even Kings need to sleep, I thought to myself.

I decided to retrace my steps to see if I could find the miniaturisation reset button so squeezed through the bars of the portcullis - I didn’t see Falling George come hurtling down towards m…

A Dream Journey

The sun is hot. I am sweating. The saddle is hard. The road narrows. I don’t know the landmarks. Ruts approach. Green appears between the ruts. The tarmac surface disappears. The surface is stoney muddy and unflat. Flints like acne pop up in the thinly soiled fields each side of the track. I keep pedalling. The track winds around the stump of a very old, very circumferated tree. The track comes to an end. I am outside a flint-built farmhouse. Part of the house has knapped flints but in the older part they are left rounded with a slight imbrication to  the east, seemingly leaning because of the keening west wind up here on the dry hill.

There is a well in the courtyard in front of the building. I wind up the bucket, hoping for a drink. It is a long wind up. A long way down to the water table. A long way through this hill of well drained chalk. The bucket appears. It is half full of water. I take a long grateful drink. I pour the rest of the cool water over my head - a welcome wet chill. I look around, no people. No way, out except the way I came; in. I prop my bike against the parapet of the well. I drop to the ground to prop my back against it. I am too weary to search for a prop, a seat. I doze in the shadow of the well roof until a dream comes, of speedy pedalling along these old trading trackways.

The sun moves around. The shade moves away from my face. I wake in the sun - burning light. The dream retreats. The nightmare advances. I mount the hot saddle and free wheel down the track. The temperature drops. Grey clouds appear on the horizon. The clouds travel nearer. Wind comes from nowhere. The clouds arrive, now darker and thicker. Rain switches on, large thundery drops. It is cold, it is wet, Wind whips at my summer club top. I pedal faster to create warmth. The rain roars and hammers the ground. White rivulets form in the chalk ruts, turn to milk, race me down the track, looking for but not finding, a drain. It is a cross wind. I don’t know why. I am happy. It pushes me sideways. I keep on the bike, just. I follow the furrows. The tyres plough through the rivulets, competing to speed to the lower ground. The squall passes. Rain stops. Sun emerges from the clouds. A miraculous rainbow forms. I pedal faster, try to get to the illusory pot of gold. It moves away from me. the rainbow fades. Nothing lasts.

The rivulets chuckle and gurgle, not knowing that their life is nearly over. Twigs and leaves debris dam the bends. Clouded, milky water rushes down the straights. The ruts deepen, washed out to small river beds. The track flattens, the ruts fill with watery chalky mush. The green centre of the track changes to tarmac. A tee junction ahead, no coffee here. The rivulets meet their nemesis, a black drain grid, hellespont on speed as they rush to a certain death in the dark unknown depths below. I pedal faster, aiming for dryness and warmth. I start to steam. The tyres sing on the tarmac. A spray of droplets from the rear tyre form a wet line up my back. This is cycling. This is how it should be. I sing back to the tyres in happy harmony.

I look up to the side of the road, houses, shops and pubs appear - each side. I am entering a town. No reception committee. Where am I? What is the name of this town. I know I am in South East England because of the chalk downs, vernacular buildings of flint, lopped ends and tile hung fronts. All towns have a name. If a town had no name, no one would know of it because no one could refer to it. I see a church, built of red stone - is this possible? It is but parish churches are always built of local stone. Only cathedrals could afford to import stone because they had more tithes ground from the poor. I stop. I prop the bike against a gravestone to ‘tuts’ from purple and lavender clad ladies with large-brimmed hats who chat in the sunlit graveyard. Who will object to my bike? They are too late. I walk up to the war memorial. Names written in cyrillic script in columns down the five faces. Five fold symmetry, must be crinoidal. Why cyrillic? I go in the church. I pick up a hymnal, It is English, I recognise some of the words. I put it down. I walk out through the heavy door to the sunny graveyard. The lavender ladies have dispersed but my bike is still there. The gravestone has gone. Other gravestones have english names, Henry Edwards, George Kent… The church is now vernacular, flints and bricks. The war memorial has four sides, english names in english script. I look at the notice in the church porch, St Ethelburgh’s dates and times of services. The town has a name, Tenterton. I don’t know it.

I wake and stretch. My legs ache from all that pedalling. I dress. My cycle top is still sweaty, with a muddy line up the back.