It was very appropriate for such a one as me to write another's Christmas cards yesterday, with messages and addresses - my own too. They have no hope of arriving before the beginning of Christmas, but will be there by the end. It is quite different from making up letters for clients, but probably much closer the what parish clerks and scriveners did in days of yore.
I was not allowed to go to Wokingham to collect my mother, but left to shop some more, and to try to make the house look clean and welcoming, but there are so many other temptations. I haven't succumbed to all of them, though CDs of Praetorius, and an LP Bach's Christmas Oratorio have seduced me, though lots of vacuuming was achieved, and some tidying.
Jo's trip to Wokingham to collectt my mother has not flourished: a friend was to collect them at Waterloo, and asked to be 'phoned as they left, but she 'phoned as they arrived - and that he cannot do. It means a taxi, and it is costly proof that I should not be bullied, even if still poorlyish.
I am sure that the eponymous wolf god did not have such problems getting his festivals organized. But in the event I should tear myself from Bach and achieve more pre-Christams marvels, and warm the house up: the mother wants it fierce.
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