Category Archives: Christmas

Easter?

I mourn my Easters. Some years ago I came to the reluctant conclusion that it made no sense for me to expect the other three family members to celebrate something that didn’t come natural to them. It was easier for me to go Easter-less.

(By comparison, I have always ‘insisted’ that we celebrate Christmas my way. But that’s OK, because the rest of the world also has some kind of Christmas happening, even if it’s different.)

Whereas Easter is virtually only chocolate eggs.

Don’t get me started on those eggs! I grew up on cardboard eggs with pretty pictures of Eastery things, or colourful aluminium foil, filled with simple sweets. Whereas Offspring’s friends down the road had a couple of picnic tables set up in their dining room, with row upon row of chocolate eggs; maybe ten each for the three children…

And then there are the feathers. Coloured feathers attached to thin branches of [generally] birch, displayed in some sort of large vase. Although that is for Lent. But I/we think of it as being for Easter, too.

I miss all this! Doesn’t matter that I can have all of it in the house, when I somehow can’t share the (totally non-religious) sentiments with my family. So imagine my pleasure the other week when finding that my friend in Lund had decorated her house in just the right Eastery way! It was so beautiful! And as with Christmas, it wasn’t exactly the same as mine, but you could tell we were on the same wavelength.

Easter witches

In protest I got out more decorations than usual a few days ago. I wanted to do my solitary Easter appreciation surrounded by more chickens and witches than I normally do. I’m puzzling over what to do foodwise, as not all the potential Easter type food will suit all the eaters.

Eggs. Real ones. What else?

We’d grill hot dogs on the Easter bonfires. I suppose an induction hob would do..? Not sure what the reaction to raw egg with lots of sugar would be. Yum?

I’ve still got a few hours to work something out.

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Secrets

Who knew there were so many secrets to be kept in the children’s books world? Well, I knew, but I didn’t realise there were quite so many, nor that so many people share the secrets quite so freely. If you tell me, I will tell no one. Except possibly the Resident IT Consultant, but he is equally discreet. Besides, he won’t know what I told him, nor will he remember it five minutes later. And whom would he tell?

Maureen Lynas blogged about secrets on Slushpile a while back, and call me naïve, but I had no idea quite so many people are in on so many secrets. I trust no one (see above). Besides, apart from one spectacular time when I lost my poker face, I know how to lie so as not to suffer the mishaps Maureen mentions.

But then I began thinking about all the other secrets, like Christmas University Challenge, which is recorded in one fell swoop, well before Christmas. How do the winners avoid walking round with smug faces? How come the audience can keep the secret of which team won? (Judging by who was in the audience, it could be they have only very special people watching, like members of last year’s teams, and this year’s losers and so on.) Based on this I decided not to email Adèle Geras to ask how her team did, in case she would be unable to lie convincingly.

On New Year’s Eve we watched BBC Alba (that’s Gaelic television) celebrate the New Year. After some rude comments [from me] about how the place reminded me of Oldham Town Hall, Daughter and the Resident IT Consultant said it looked like Stirling Castle. A few camera angles later, it turned out to be Stirling Castle. You know, a short walk away from where we were. In a town where they have recently stopped celebrating New Year at the castle. One of the performers was a Daughter favourite, Julie Fowlis, and Daughter would quite have liked to know about this so she could have attended.

Except, we worked out that the audience was small enough, and clearly Gaelic speaking enough, that maybe it was by invitation only. So, as the rest of town celebrated elsewhere, upset that the castle was not for ‘all of us’ it seems others were celebrating and televising from up there. My old favourite Calum Kennedy (was not there because he’s dead) provided a contribution through his daughter Fiona Kennedy. And it was fascinating listening to the almost completely incomprehensible Gaelic, which sounded pretty much like Norwegian with lots of ‘ch’ sounds added to it. Except I didn’t understand a word. I reckon the audience might have been shipped in from Uist.

But it was nice. And ‘secret.’

We’ve also entertained ourselves with a new, used, board game called The London Game. It’s where you have to keep secret which London tube stations you wish to travel to, so that the other players don’t put too many spanners in the tube stations around you. We reckon the Hazard cards could do with being more plentiful, as each hazard comes round a little too frequently; aunts visiting, forced trips to watch a match at the Oval, and some weird kidnaps to Kensal Green.

Today sees the announcement of the 2016 Costa Book Awards. I don’t know the shortlisted children’s books well enough to have any witchy premonitions as to which one will win. But on seeing that one of Daughter’s Christmas presents is on one of the other shortlists, and the giver mentioned its topical-ness, I wonder if he could be in on a secret? I mean, I don’t know. (The Essex Serpent, by Sarah Perry.)

So, yes. It’s all secret. Unless it isn’t.

End of year miscellany

I did that sitting up in the middle of the night thing again. We’d finished watching the Agatha Christie two-parter Witness for the Prosecution on BBC, and I’d blogged about it on CultureWitch. I claimed I didn’t really know the story, and then – midsleep – I wondered why it all felt so familiar, and how come I knew what the plot twist was going to be?

Elementary, my dear Watsons. I’d seen it before. Quite some time ago, although not as far back as 1957, which is when the film was made. And then I remembered something else. The Retired Children’s Librarian had watched it and she mentioned she’d not come across the book, and I made it my mission to find the book for her. But could I find a single copy of Åklagarens Vittne anywhere? I could not. Some second hand bookshops even had waiting lists for it.

Apparently I gave up at that point, and then I forgot the whole thing.

Forgetting is not something St Hilda’s alumni do. I was incredibly pleased to watch Val McDermid and Adèle Geras succeed all the way in the Christmas University Challenge, winning by beating the lovely Leeds team. But Uzbekistan, Adèle? It was the middle of the Pacific!

Never mind. We got a women only team winning, even beating another women only team in the semifinals.

And then. Then Daughter let her ancient parents accompany her to see Rogue One in the cinema. Oh dear, the amount of eye-rolling that had to be done when it turned out we’d not understood any of it. The Resident IT Consultant was silly enough to ask. I was going to play it cool and say nothing if I could help it.

I saw the first Star Wars film back when it was new, when you didn’t have to keep track of all the numbers of sequels and prequels. I didn’t get it. It was nice enough, I suppose, but I could never work out why they did what they did, nor who was good and who was bad. That Darth Vader chap seemed nice.

But I quite liked getting out of the house, if only to sit in a tightly packed cinema, with a constant stream of little children squeezing past on their way back from the toilets.

I suspect we won’t be invited again, though.

Soup. And olives.

Wasn’t entirely sure what that bright shiny thing in my eyes was yesterday. Thought about this and vaguely recalled something called sunshine. That could have been it, I suppose.

We ventured out in the car, seeing as we’d received an invitation to some literary soup. With olives. It was surprisingly nice being out there, in the bright whatsit, looking at the distant hills that had a little bit of snow on them.

The Resident IT Consultant insisted on driving us past a gingerbread house. I somehow expected him to leave me there, but he didn’t. It was on a narrow road which was shorter and straighter than the main road to where we were going, but one that ‘would probably take as long, because you have to drive more slowly.’

We arrived too early. It is terribly embarrassing arriving too early. We stood outside for a bit, listening to our hosts hoovering, and seeing Daughter disappear down the road because we were embarrassing. They let us in after a while, and we had soup and olives, served with funny bread, normal bread and something that turned out to be brown bread.

There was cake and cups of tea, once the Resident IT Consultant had been lured out on a walk by our host. There was talk of zombies, but not too much, and the advisability – or not – of walking widdershins round churches and such. And how the local witch wouldn’t give away her trade secrets.

Paying tax.

That kind of thing.

And not only did we arrive too early, but we left too late. Best to make the best of such a bright day.

For the children? Really?

I’ve been reading things about Christmas, and realised I have got it all wrong.

I do Christmas for me, the way I like it. And that’s mainly an updated version of what I grew up with. Which in most cases will have something to do with grandparents. I think you often skip a generation. (An online friend had finally managed to ‘get her Grandmother’s tree,’ after years of collecting old decorations from charity shops and jumble sales. And she was so happy.)

Except for us. Offspring, I mean. They have ‘always’ spent Christmas at home, which means it’s my way, or – if you like – my grandparents’ way. Mother-of-witch was never able host Christmas for them, and the other grandparents were not terribly Christmas-minded. (Basically they did what I asked them to do. Sort of.)

So now I believe Offspring mainly want their own version of my childhood Christmasses, as tweaked by me. It’s a bit like genetics. Where you come from. Where you’re going. Who got in the way.

But anyway, in the papers I have seen suggestions that when one’s children reach a respectable age, like eight, or 19, or worse, you can skip all this Christmas nonsense and do less, or nothing. Throw out the decorations. Not bother with the traditions you taught them.

And the children mind!

It’s obvious, really. If you only did Christmas for the children when they were small, I can’t see how you can suddenly say they are too old for what you’ve brought them up with.

If, like me, you didn’t do it for the children, then you keep on doing it for yourself. That way the children get it whether they want it or not. Because they can always opt out.

And if you never lied to them and told them Father Christmas is real, then you don’t have that little problem to wriggle out of either.

Oops, sorry. He is whatever you want him to be.

I mean, last week I even said to my builders, as we temporarily moved the dining table away from in front of the fireplace, that it was so Father Christmas wouldn’t bump into it on his descent. I’m sure they believed that I believe.

Go girls!

A big Christmas thank you to the ladies of St Hilda’s, Oxford, for wiping the floor with Magdalene, Cambridge, in the Christmas Day Christmas University Challenge!

A Bookwitch obviously supports team Adèle Geras and Val McDermid. Even if they left me feeling stupid and uneducated. But that’s all right. Sort of.

It just goes to prove how much you learn if you read books. And, dare I say it? If you are a product of universities past. OK, OK, I know all of the participants are from the past, but some more from the past than others.

When she discovered that Adèle was taking part, Daughter was really excited. That’s until she realised Chris Lintott was also going to be on. On the same day, on the opposite side. Real conflict of interest there.

Chris did do well on the science/maths questions, and he might have had a misspent youth as regards Christmas number ones, but books rule. As did Adèle’s drama and music background. Not to mention Val’s intimate knowledge of comics.

Go St Hilda’s!

Klootzak of the year

Father Christmas listens. It’s amazing how, even quite close to Christmas, the man in red has time to listen to find out what people want. I obviously wanted nothing, but happened to mention that I could do with educating a bit, in regard to music. Lo and behold, what did I find? CDs featuring Bowie’s and Adele’s finest.

Other than that, it was – unsurprisingly – mostly books. What better way to celebrate the end to 2016 than with good old Enid Blyton’s Famous Five on Brexit Island. That will be a jolly read. We also cheered ourselves up by laughing uncontrollably at electric chairs. Yes, it is in very bad taste. I’m sorry. Daughter had bought another quiz book, but the questions were so hard – even for the Resident IT Consultant – that we abandoned it and went back to last year’s quiz volume.

Daughter was shocked at how few presents I got. I was surprised at how many there were for me. She is now an adult. This was made clear by how many gifts she gave and how few she received. (She has rubbish parents.) The generations have swapped places. Luckily a famous author called at Bookwitch Towers last week, with a Christmas present for the witch. Flemish insult on the outside – specially for me – and a migraine trigger on the inside, so I will share it with the Resident IT Consultant. We are both happy.

There were elephants. I have no idea why.

Amaretti. I think I know why. Socks. Obviously.

And the Resident IT Consultant went to bed with Sophie Hannah, looking very happy. (I await my turn.)

Next year I shall have to resort to wrapping individual toffees to increase the number of presents under the tree.