Clarissa et al.

I have lived very nearly fifty-three years and have only ever been to one New Year party. This is not because I am unpopular or a party pooper, but just a total lack of interest. January 1st just doesn't resonate with me as it always seems something of an anticlimax after Christmas, a hiatus in the middle of the Christmas celebrations interposed midway between Christmas Day itself and the Twelfth Day of Christmas.

The natural year builds towards spring and the vernal equinox. I suppose in the same way that the Christian year builds up slowly through Advent you could argue that the natural year begins with the winter solstice, but to me it seems that you watch spring growing from the shy appearance of the snowdrops and building through the glory of daffodils until that point where new year/season burgeons forth in birdsong and blossom. Well, no, it isn't a single day; it isn't even the same week each year - hardly even the same month - but it always seems to me that our ancestors had the right of it before new year was moved from March to January. Even the money men seem to have a clearer idea of the real beginning of the year than whoever it was who fixed on January 1st.

So, here in the Turner household we have our own established routine for New Year: we ignore it. Or, to be accurate, father ignores it and goes to bed sometime after eleven, but before midnight, while I will make a pot of tea as soon as I have finished writing this, then I shall turn on the televisiion long enough for Big Ben to strike, wish the cat a happy new year and go to bed with a good book (and the cat). When my grandmother was alive we children watched television with her (usually a Marx Brothers film and the White Heather Club,) and she gave us small glasses of sweet sherry to toast the new year, while my parents were with some Scottish friends at the Caledonian Society's Hogmanay Ball. But that was a long time ago, the friends went back to Scotland, and we reverted to our customary avoidance of celebrations.

I don't do resolutions either.

I think I finally gave up completely on new year celebrations when the whole world went mad and celebrated the new century and new millennium a year early, but if you think that I'm a sad git, just wait for my Twelfth Night party next Sunday.

We had a quiet day here.

In Canada my cousin Patsy's daughter Angie didn't have a quiet day, because in the early hours she gave birth to a baby girl called Morgan - a sister to Kory.

Congratulations to Angie and Jesse.

Pictures of Morgan with Kory (sister), Angie (mother) and Patsy (grandmother)

The exchange of emails around this event was as confused as might be expected at Christmas:

Boxing Day Email from Robbie (Angie’s Uncle)
Patsy just called me to say that Angie's labour has slowed right down and she's still at home. For those who haven't heard yet, her water broke last night; Patsy announced the news during our Christmas dinner at the Commons. Good luck, Angie!

Merry Christmas, everyone

Boxing Day Email from Patsy (Angie’s Mother)
Hello everyone,
There was a bit of miscommunication (no surprise at a dinner of 25) but Angie's water did not break last night. She is not in labour yet but it will be very soon now. We will keep you all posted.

Happy Boxing day

Holy Innocents Day Email from Katy (Angie’s Sister)
YAY and CONGRATULATIONS to Angie and Jesse who had a little baby girl around 4am on the 28th of December. She was induced at 1.30am, got contractions at 2am, and out came baby at 4am! We heard from the proud papa at 4.30am. As of then they had not settled on a name. We'll keep you all posted.

Some of the things I have been given this Christmas gave me pause for thought: Do my friends ever listen to a word I say? Do they really know me at all?

Well, I am glad to say that Liz and her family do know me: two books (neither previously on my list of must reads, but both look intriguing and readable) and a painting of Normanby Hall by her mother. Proper presents I will enjoy for a long time.

However, when Liz and Ed, Rick and Kris, Joyce and Gerry came to lunch yesterday, among other things I was able to serve the fizzy wine I was given which I dislike, but they do not. Father and I broached a second bottle of the rather young New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc which we had on Christmas Day (and which was on a very good offer at Morrisons so I bought a box of six).

To go with this booze, we had blackforest ham with salad, olives and olive bread (one of the easiest starters ever) followed by fish pie, then steamed ginger pudding.

FISH PIE RECIPE

This is my fanciest fish pie recipe - company version.

Mixed fish
In this case my bulk fish was coley, but any mild flavoured white fish on offer is fine.
Salmon
Smoked haddock (undyed)
Prawns
Squid
It should have had mussels too, but they had vanished somewhere in the freezer and I couldn't find them.

One large leek
Spinach
Milk
Anchovy sauce
Plain flour
Herbs to taste - I like sage with fish, but most people go for parsley or fennel.
Puff Pastry

Skin the fish and take out any bones. Don't throw anything away.
Cut up the fish and put it in a large dish with the shellfish etc. and spinach leaves.
Simmer the fish skin and bones with chosen herbs in milk.
Soften the chopped leek in butter/good margarine.
Make a roux with flour
Add the warm milk (strained - the only bits in the sauce should be the leeks).
Bring to the boil to make a thick sauce.
Flavour to taste with anchovy sauce.
I make the sauce in a plastic bowl in the microwave, but any way is fine.
Pour the sauce over the fish.
Cover and cook in a moderate oven. (Not too long - just long enough to get everything warm)
Roll out a cover of Puff Pastry to fit the dish.
Raise oven temperature to 200C
Remove dish lid and replace with pastry lid
Cook for about twenty minutes while accompanying vegetables are steaming.
Serve at once.

It was a good afternoon, and father and Gerry spent their time reminiscing about Cleethorpes between fifty and eighty years ago and the very strange characters either or both (and by extension the rest of us) had as relatives! Kris claims that her family consists of normal people: I bet that's because she hasn't looked.

Which reminds me, I have just finished reading The Island by Victoria Hislop (this month's bookworms selection). I wasn't looking forward to it because I was under the impression it would be a variant on Shirley Valentine.

It wasn't. It was absolutely fascinating, and very well written.

Which is what brought me to mentioning it: very strange people these Greeks - every bit as parochial and odd as Meggies. Get researching your pre-American ancestors, Kris; they won't be any more normal than those of the rest of us.

The aftermath of Thursday afternoon is that I have had to spend all Thursday evening and most of Friday apologising to the cat for shutting him up in my bedroom so that he couldn't frighten Joyce. His normal practice is to sleep in my bedroom all afternoon anyway, but he likes to pop down to inspect any company that turns up.

I said in my last blog that I always like a nice cup of tea. Which is true. The operative term is 'nice'.

One of my friends has given me some China tea for Christmas, and I have absolutely no idea whether it is nice or not. It comes in a solid block about 7 to 8 inches in diameter - in size and shape very similar to a small deep pan pizza as sold by Pizza Hut before they became too clever for their own good and spoiled a perfectly adequate product with one silly gimmick after another. My father took one look at it and said that if I had come up beofre him when he was Chairman of the Bench he'd have taken one look at this and found me guilty of trafficking illegal substances. Anyway here it is wrapped and unwrapped.

Leaving aside the fact that our plumbing can't cope with leaf tea and on wet winter evenings I feel no desire to go out and empty the teapot on the rose bed, and that I like brown Indian tea with milk and sugar, how do I make this tea? Do I break/cut lumps off? How big should those lumps be? How long do I leave it to mash? (Those solid lumps will take a while to hydrate, won't they?) Do I serve it with lemon? On its own? With milk? With sugar?

The instructions are in Chinese, so I may never know. The little bit in English tells me that it is a limited edition, and a google for the name of the company tells me that . . .

"The East Indiaman Götheborg arrived at its destination, Guangzhou, China yesterday. Pomp and circumstance ensued of course, but above all else it highlights an important part of the history of both China and Sweden. It also shows how ordinary people can band together to substantiate dreams in an extraordinary way.

The replica of the 18th century ship spent nearly ten months sailing along the ancient maritime Silk Road. And it has finally arrived in Guangzhou, capital of South China’s Guangdong Province, and its destination centuries ago.

Amidst cheers from tens of thousands of spectators, the biggest antique wooden sailboat [of its kind /note] in the world sailed into Guangzhou Nansha Passenger Dock.

Nearly 300 years ago, the original Gotheborg pioneered trade between Sweden and China. It traveled between Sweden and China three times in six years and brought Sweden massive amounts of Chinese tea and porcelain. But it sank only 900 meters away from her final destination.

4000 workers were involved in building the 30 million US dollars replica. Gotheborg carries 80 crew members and some of the silk, porcelain, tea leaves and spices that went down with the original ship."

Assuming the tea is not part of the original cargo (see paragraph immediately above) what is the connection?

I've got a feeling that Liz's dad is a bit of a tea buff: maybe he'll be able to tell me all about it when they all come to lunch on Thursday, especially as he's also quite an expert of matters maritime. But I'm not holding my breath, and would be grateful if anyone out there in blogland can help.

(My other Christmas tea, by contrast, comes with very detailed instructions not only about how to make it, but also about where, when, how and with whom to drink it.)

While I am on about odd presents, I might mention that I shower rather than bath and I don't wear a nighty or pyjamas. I admit that this was not always the case, but the hot summer of 2003 changed my bathing and sleeping habits for ever, facts I am sure that I have mentioned in passing to most of my closer friends. I've been given a bath pillow and a nighty for Christmas - both very pretty and good quality. Odder still is the fact that when they put in their new bathroom the friends who gave me the bath pillow opted for a mega-shower rather than trying to squash a bath into a smallish room. Could this therefore be a recycled present?

By the way, the friends who gave me these presents are computer illiterate/phobic so they will never read this.

I have some very nice presents this year, and some very odd ones.

I'll leave the odd ones aside for now, and I won't enumerate the very nice ones because if I do anything not listed will be assumed to be a very odd one which won't necessarily be the case. So this is a blanket thank you until I get round to writing thank you notes/emails, although, for one of the two real people (as opposed to e-friends) who regularly reads this blog, I will say that I always like a nice cup of tea. Thanks.

Among my presents was a box of those nice crispy mint thins which was opened and sampled enthusiatically by Jessica. I remember a Christmas 44 or 45 years ago when my stocking contained a box of Royals (little chocolate bars about twice the length of neopolitans in a box about the size of a pack of playing cards). Being a properly brought up child, my first action was to take them through to my parents' bedroom to offer one to each of them. Both refused kindly but firmly on the grounds that grown-ups didn't want to eat chocolate before breakfast. I thought then that I would never ever be that old. Well, I am and I don't - not merely before breakfast, but before lunch too. Jess and her brothers have gone, kindly leaving me about three quarters of my chocolates (which, incidently, they gave to me).

Back to last night: The Church was reasonably full (despite filthy weather) for Midnight Mass and the congregation included several young people (16-25) coming of their own volition which was nice. The youngest of them is a member of a non-churchgoing family who has started turning up from time to time: he sat next to me, and kept asking for explanations of words like redemption and apostolic - difficult to do in a whisper in the middle of a service, but probably worthwhile. Irritatingly the man who had said he would read the first lesson did not turn up, which left poor Stuart having to sight-read a not particularly simple passage fron Isaiah. The service was taken by the archdeacon (the Venerable Jane Sinclair) who has a nice straightforward, sincere approach. Colin played the organ and we sang seven carols (three more than planned). Because young Brendan arrived late and I had handed him my service booklet and carol sheet I was working from memory which is fine by me, although I find that I don't really know It Came Upon a Midnight Clear word for word apart from the first and last verses, and there is one generally omitted verse (the 4th I think) of O Little Town of Bethlehem on which I am a bit vague. Also, when working from memory I found that I was saying 'forgiveness' (as for rite A) when we say 'redemption' in Swallow, and 'whose propery is always to have mercy' (as in Common Prayer) when we say 'whose nature is always to have mercy' - very odd and not at all consistent.

The candle-lit church looked lovely, although I kept thinking of those lines in the Betjeman poem
"So that the villagers can say
'The church looks nice' on Christmas Day"

I have actally quite enjoyed watching Oliver Twist this week despite its being a somewhat comic strip version. However, I do wonder why it is that nobody sees fit to film the book as written. In some versions the Maylie sub-plot is completely omitted, and on the whole I think this is preferable to distorting the relationships between the characters to the extent this did making the coincidencs of the plot even more strained than in the original.

It isn't as if those relationships are all that complex: Mr. Brownlow had two friends, both now dead, Mr. Leeford and Mr. Fleming. The one is the father of Edward Leeford aka Monks, and the other is the father of Agnes and Rose Fleming. Leeford senior had an affair with Agnes and Oliver was the result. Agnes, her father and her lover all died. Edward grew up as a thoroughly bad lot, and the very young Rose was adopted by the Maylies and grew up virtuous and in ignorance of her true origins.

Fagin as written is much nastier than he is ever portrayed. Dodger does not go off into the sunset with Bullseye, but is transported to Australia earlier in the book and Noah Claypole takes over his role in both the gang and the plot.

There, not difficult is it? So, why not dramatise it instead of making up a new plot.

By the way, surely an actress of Anna Massey's standing could have objected to saying that dreadful soap line "He's not worth it", even if she didn't have to precede it with "Leave it aht, Rose"?

I had lunch with Issy yesterday and picked up the turkey she had bought at the auction in Market Rasen when she got her own and her step-son's. This way we get free range organic turkeys for about half the price (around £1.20 per pound rough dressed) of similar birds from a local butcher, and less than a quarter of the price from one on-line specialist dealer I found! Admittedly my father has just had the pleasureable job of drawing it and cutting off its head and feet. Meanwhile I was shelling the boiled chestnuts which isn't quite as bad, but is one of my least favourite jobs in preparing Christmas food. The stock for Tuesday's gravy is now simmering gently on the stove, and I have been to the market in Caistor to get the vegetables. That's everything bought except for picking up some fresh milk with Monday's paper, although Pa tells me we have run out of baked beans (I think we can live without them with all the other food in the house), and the nicest coffee is running a bit low which is a bit of a nuisance as some of my guests on Thursday don't drink tea. At least it's back to Carolyn's for coffee after church tomorrow so all the world won't be drinking my limited stocks.

Well, if that's the worst problem at the moment, what's the best thing?

I have done all this shopping - groceries and presents - without once going into Grimsby or Lincoln, without queuing, and without having to rely on Tesco's less than reliable delivery service (see very irritated blogs for last December/January) Gosh, I am a happy, happy bunny - albeit one with her crossed fingers firmly on a piece of wood to avert disasters.

I have been looking at the Radio Times. On Christmas day itself (apart from The Queen and taking into account all the offerings on all the freeview channels) there is precisely one hour of new television which I quite want to watch, plus a couple of films which I could watch for the third and thousandth time resepctively, but probably won't.

I hope somebody has given me some books! Thank goodness I went to the library and stocked up for the holiday, because by the evening of Christmas day what I want to do is veg out in front of the fire with some cheerful fiction.

It was our last day of work yesterday. We had an Education meeting and, instead of bringing our individual pack-ups, we each brought a plate of something to share. My contribution was salmon vol-e-vonts (large size), and virtually everything on the table was home made or home grown: Vicky's salad is still growing beautifully and was a lovely collection of leaves - much better than any supermarket selection I have encountered.

Here we are before we turned silly. Dianne Linda me Ann Karen Hilary Sharon Vicky Margaret Rachel

After lunch we went across to the Hall to see Sarah (who couldn't get to the meeting because Stuart is ill and they are short staffed) and to look at the Christmas decorations, which were absolutely lovely. We went up to the schoolroom to show Gia and Karen (who are new - in the office and the loans collection respectively) what we do. I ended up doing an impromptu schoolroom with them. At which point a group of mature women mainly in their fifties decided to behave like a group of kids: Sharon decided to be the sort of child everyone dreads having to teach with pert remarks and a noisily runny nose; she ended up in the corner, while Hilary decided to be a naughty left hander and ended up in the finger stocks.

I think we may have been just a bit silly, but who cares?
 
It's Christmas!!!

The post has just arrived, and before putting the latest batch of cards up I have added the senders to the list, one section of which runs thus-
Becky and Paul
Lauren and Paul
Paul and Veronica
Sheila and Roy
Roy and Carol
Steve and Carol
Sarah B
Sarah P
Gill and Geoff
Polly and Geoff
Pam and Geoff
Pam and John
Pat and John
Pat L
What is it with some names? I once taught a class where 50% of the girls were Kate or Katy, and 60% of the boys were James.

We also have cards from 2 County Councils, one District Council, 2 secondary schools, the Humber Bridge Board and Humberside Airport.

Two Questions
Do public bodies celebrate Christmas independently of the individual human beings involved?
Don't most of these organisiations spend the rest of the year pleading poverty? (These were big, shiny cards for the most part.)

It was the museum Christmas lunch today. None of us being at work Hilary, Sharon, Dianne and I met at eleven to drink coffee and have a chat. The full-time museum staff joined us at 12.30.

The Pink Pig is an organic farm shop and restaurant. The shop, I discovered, is fearsomely expensive. I was going to buy sausages, but can't feel that any sausage, however good, is worth £8 a kilo! The most famous sausages in Grimsby (from the shop where the Pink Pig's butcher formerly worked) cost that much for five pounds rather than two!

The Lunch itself (£9.99 for two courses) was excellent - good fresh vegetables and a very substantial fish pie, but the best thing was the conversation which was wide ranging and not just idle chatter with, for the most part, people whom I only know slightly as colleagues. I found that I was sitting opposite Steve, whom I have known for the last five years in his role as keeper of natural history, but only discovered today that he is a committed Christian - so with that in common conversation took off big time between, him, Dianne, Karen and myself and we bemoaned the narrowness of some people's christianity and the lack of proper christian education both in schools and afterwards.

It was also lovely to see David, who retired earlier in the year, and Kevin, who in theory also retired but is, according to Dianne (his wife), as busy as ever.

Chimney swept.

Septic tank emptied.

Wood chopped.

Cake marzipanned.

And I went to Waitrose in Lincoln on the way home yesterday and stocked up on all those little things that Morrisons and Tesco have stopped keeping - Anchovy Sauce, Patum Pepperium, Ceylon Tea . . .

Just a few moments after taking the above photo I looked up again and took this! Let's hope he is pleased with our efforts.

Back at work today, but just for the one day as schools don't book us much in the run-up to Christmas. Today's was one of the outreaches which were postponed when I was ill. At least from now Hilary should be able to do the Egyptians as well.

It was rather an odd school - just years 4 to 6 - and a lot of children formerly excluded from school whom they are working hard to keep in regular education. There seemed to be vast numbers of staff wandering about, and I gather one child went missing while we were there.

Fortunately the children enjoyed the workshops although the Toys through the Ages which we did with two year 4 groups is usually just for infants, and behaved pretty well. We were warned that the second year 5 group was 'challenging', but actually the children were absolutely fascinated by the Egyptians thanks in part to the teacher's own enthusiasm for the subject so that this was a grand finale to what had obviously been a much enjoyed topic.

Do things go in threes, and is this the end of it?

Let me go back to Saturday when the sink started backing up and it transpired that the septic tank was full. (Ah, the joys of living in the country!) - Pumped out Monday morning.

Monday evening the chimney catches fire. Not badly - just a few sparks from a little soot fire about four feet up, but enough to have to clear the fire from the grate and let the chimney go cold. Also enough for Josh and Jake to paint lurid word pictures for everyone who doesn't know the truth. The sweep comes on Friday morning.

Tonight I am in the bathroom when the light goes out: not a bulb which would have been marginally irritating, but a broken wire - so it's cleaning my teeth by candle-light tonight.

The dishwasher has on three occasions decided to break down on Christmas Eve. Is this something to which I can look forward this year, or have these three irritants been in lieu?

An irritant of a different sort: a tits and bums site was 'discovered' on Joe's list of favourites by his little sister. A trawl through history shows that it first appeared this afternoon between a free games site visited by Josh and a shopping site visited by Jess, and at a time when Joe was listening to music on vinyl in another room and nowhere near the computer. (Why are they all in my house? They have got a home to go to - honestly!) My guess is that the site came up with the games and Josh alone or Josh and Jess together decided to frame Joe 'for a laff'. Father, who is very much of a puritan, is furious to put it mildly.

In answer to a question about passions on another blog I said that chopping wood was a great way to sublimate anger. I was chopping wood this afternoon even before the computer incident and before the bathroom light failed. I shall either go out all day alone tomorrow or chop enough wood to last until the new year.

I think I have managed to finish my Christmas shopping. Mostly on line with a quick visit to Barton yesterday to mop up the bits.

Jacob came with me. Manlike he does not care for shopping. (He thinks women do?!?!?) However, he is a good strong lad, good at lifting things from trolleys into the car. Moreover he had his own shopping to do, which -regretably - included a life size inflateable Santa and two strings of outdoor lights: at least these do not festoon the outside of the house, but respectively stand in the porch and decorate a large fir tree in the garden.

I may take a photograph some evening - or, there again, I may not.

Listening to the sermon this morning I was reminded of this beautiful sonnet which I learned many years ago.

Saint John the Baptist

THE last and greatest herald of Heaven's King,
Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild,
Among that savage brood the woods forth bring,
Which he more harmless found than man, and mild.

His food was locusts, and what there doth spring,
With honey that from virgin hives distill'd;
Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing
Made him appear, long since from earth exiled.

There burst he forth: All ye whose hopes rely
On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn,
Repent, repent, and from old errors turn!
—Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry?

Only the echoes, which he made relent,
Rung from their flinty caves, Repent! Repent!

William Drummond

It isn't that I want to be the sort of person who puts the kettle away between brews; it's just that I would like to know that I could if I wanted to, and that there would be an outside chance of finding it again if I did.

After three weeks of near total neglect, I am trying to do something about my filthy tip of a house, but the real problem is years - generations - deeper than that. It's a five bedroom house for crying out loud! Just two people live in it - in the day there are usually more than that, but just two of us actually sleep here - but there isn't a spare inch of space anywhere! Some of it is my fault - I'm an obsessive archivist as well as being a bibliomaniac, so there is a lot of paperwork of various sorts.

But the real problem isn't that - I have a shopaholic nephew whose numerous collections have long outgrown his small bedroom at home and are now gradually taking over our house, the next two nephews are forever bringing bits of engines, tools, curios etc. for granddad to deal with, and Jess leaves everything from homework to dog toys.

There is also an ever changing array of coats, jackets and fleeces hanging up in the cloakroom and draped over chairs: I don't know whether they go back to their original owners or circulate among our visitors, but they come and go. More mysterious are the bags of semi-clean unironed clothes Joe leaves in his wake - usually stuffed behind the living room sofa. Are they mending? Washing? Ironing? What makes him think I'm going to do them for him? (I'm NOT) He has a perfectly adequate mother, but it seems to me that an unemployed young man of twentyone should be doing the washing, ironing and general cleaning at home for his family, not trying to farm it out on his aunt!

The trouble is that everyone feels so much at home here. It's what I want really; I would hate people to feel that they have to stand on ceremony. I like the idea of 'my house is your house'. I want my friends to come through the door and put the kettle on without waiting for me to offer them a drink. I want people to feel that they can drop in for five minutes or five hours (or even five days) without having to ask in advance. I love my family. I love my friends. I get on well with my colleagues and my neighbours many of whom cross the line into genuine friendship. I just wish that when they go they (especially my nephews) didn't leave so much stuff behind!

Anyway, after working myself pretty much to a standstill yesterday, there are now parts of the house fit to receive guests - almost.

Well, I've got the Christmas cake made - only ten days after Stir Up Sunday, so not too bad on the whole, and I'm feeding it with brandy for the next few days to make it delicious. I made the brandy butter at the same time, and I'll get on with the puddings and the mincemeat today or tomorrow. I've made or helped make the Christmas cake every year of my life with the possible exception of the first - I expect that at nine/ten months I helped with licking out the bowl (no worries about raw egg in those days).

Yesterday Joe put up the decorations, and then he licked out the bowl and (surprise) did the washing up that doesn't go in the dishwasher.

The result is that we are now feeling quite Christmassy which is a big improvement on rather poorly.

I also ordered the goats - well, not goats actually, but the ethical gifts I have decided to give many of my friends this year. It is fun choosing something which matches the person and his/her interests and concerns: food from/for the foodies, seeds from/for the gardeners etc. I bought little token gifts months ago to give them something to unwrap, but these ethical gifts are the real presents. I wish people would do this for me. One friend bought these a couple of years ago and I loved the idea of my fruit tree helping to feed a family in Africa, but sadly several of her other friends totally missed the point and she hasn't tried again. I'm hoping that the careful selection of friends and Oxfam's television advertising this year will help people understand and receive these presents in the spirit in which they are given.

I made a silly mistake last night. I thought it would be nice to have a cup of hot milk. Having been busy during the day, I skimped a bit on cooking the evening meal. Pa had picked up a couple of Morrison's turkey and stuffing pastries which are new and he fancied trying. The pastry wasn't bad, but the stuffing was very damp (almost liquid) and I am sure that there must have been turkey in there because they said there was, but I couldn't taste it. Anyway we had smallish baked potatoes, tinned sweetcorn and leek sauce left over from Tuesday which made an adequate, but uninteresting plateful, and by eleven I fancied a little something, so as I said I heated myself a cup of hot milk. I took it through to the sitting room, put it down on the tea tray, and automatically helped myself to sugar! I like sugar in tea and coffee, but in milk . . . ! It tasted just like childhood. Remember when we ate oranges and grapefruits sprinkled/smothered in sugar? Banana toffee? Ready-brek with chocolate powder in it? Banana and brown sugar sandwiches? All perfectly revolting of course, but the sweetened milk had a certain something . . . but not a something I'm going to repeat.

Our latest Book Group choice was The Jane Austen Book Club by Karen Joy Fowler which was pretty well universally disliked by the group, which found it trivial, contrived and, in most cases, not worth finishing. I did finish it, but that's the best I can say about it.

My next personal choice was A Spot of Bother by Mark Haddon, who wrote one of the Swallow Bookworms' top choices so far The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. I wouldn't say that a book about mental illness and a family which doesn't communicate would normally be my choice of reading matter, but Mark Haddon writes so well and communicates the non-communication so engrossingly that his books are pretty well unputdownable. The thing I find strange about the reviews of this book is that there is a lot of LOL comment. It is humourous, but nowhere near to laughing out loud - a wry smile, but really too painful for more than that. But then, I find the humour of embarrassingly inept people tends to pass me by anyway.

My visit to the library has collected a stack of mental chewing gum by the likes of Erica James and Libby Purves which will be enjoyable while I'm reading them, but won't stick in the mind for long.

For the past dozen years West Lindsey District Council has held a Churches Festival over two weekends in May. It was started by the council to bring tourism into the area and the churches were invited to participate. A good many churches, including Swallow, accepted the invitation.

Up until now the publicity material has been provided free by the council - publicity material which emphasises West Lindsey rather than the indiviual churches, and which frequently doesn't arrive or arrives late. This coming year they want to charge £20 to each participating church.

£20 may not sound a great sum, but in Swallow we raised about £200 in the weekend. This isn't a particularly good financial return for a great deal of hard work, but we are actually one of the most successful participants. Successful churches are therefore being asked for 10% of their takings. The majority - making less than £100 - are expected to give 20%, while many of the smallest churches which attract very few visitors and don't have the facilities to offer teas etc. take £20 or less in their colletion boxes. In other words this £20 fee is nothing short of extortion.

Before West Lindsey started its festival we, like many other churches, used to run our own flower festivals etc. The consensus of opinion is that in such a small parish it just isn't possible to do both.

Even before imposing the £20 fee, West Lindsey did not offer a particularly good deal. Admittedly their publicity brings in a number of people from outside the area, but people go out for a day with a limited amount of cash. If the day out is a drive round West Lindsey's churches, that cash will be distributed among them - a cup of tea here, a postcard there, a leaflet, a donation . . .

If, on the other hand, we held a Swallow Festival with flowers, exhibition, teas, recital . . . all that money would be spent at the one venue and we might make anything up to five times as much to help towards paying our parish share and keeping the spire upright. Yes, we would have to create our own publicity, but the local papers would give a good write-up free (particularly if we could attach the right human interest story) and making posters on the computer is not exactly a work of genius, and would cost nothing like £20.

Joining in the West Lindsey Churches Festival seemed a good idea when it was a matter of participating in a celebration of churches throughout the area, but turning it into something commercial focuses on its defects to an alarming degree. Suffice to say that next summer Swallow will be doing its own thing.

The Festival Committee meets tomorrow morning. I hope that they discover that other PCCs have done their sums and come to the same conclusions we have, and that the number of participating churches is so reduced that they have to rethink this ridiculous charge.

I went to the doctor this morning. He has prescribed me some more tablets, but says I can count myself fit for work from next week. He added to phone at once if I started feeling worse again, but I'm hoping that's just natural caution.

Much more cheerful than Dr. Cautious, was a brief visit yesterday from Liz on her way home from a pre-Christmas visit to her parents. Liz is possibly the only woman in the world who travels from London to do her Christmas shopping in Lincoln, but obviously the reason is a traditional social occasion with her mother rather than the shopping itself. We talked about childhood literacy, learning through play and the modern fashion for very elaborate weddings. Just what I needed.

My previous visitors had been Trish who brought books and stayed to discuss literature, and Chris, a retired doctor, who brought flowers, asked me all about my symptoms and medication, and sympathised about not feeling up to doing any housework.

Jacob isn't at work today, but he can't bear to be idle.

One day soon he is going to have a fleet of these things, the way he keeps working on them.