Back to work

I was exhausted by yesterday's efforts, strenuous though they were not. How these holidays take it out of a chap! It might have been post-viral, since I did have an infection, and was quite busy over Christmas, cooking and partying.

Is it better today? well a nap would help.

Cleaning up

The third load has got into the dishwasher. What marvels they are! I remember all too clearly what I did without one, and have no desire to re-acquaint myself with the rigours of doing the washing up again, immersed in greasy suds.

I was quite pleased with lunch' and the guests, and as always it lingered into the darkness of a cold frosty evening. I had marginally over roasted the beef, and had left the salmon just too long in its bouillon; but the salads turned out alright, and I congratulate myself on the poached pears. I think that the neighbours and friends enjoyed it, and think that I did.

Joe's magic tricks were a delight. It must be a good way of showing off to grown-ups - though he did look quite grown-up too, and lit a sparkle in Matilda's eyes I thought, especially realizing that they were at school together.

My mother has been sleeping lots - but we must get her up for another party, due in Snaresbrook in half an hour.

Preparing for tomorrow

I have been pleased to find that tomorrow's fish, a salmon, is sized so that it will get into the fish kettle, and has slipped in already, looking snug.  I had anticipated that it would not, and so had ventured out to the Turkish shop at the bottom of the hill to buy foil and cook it en papilotte, and was anxious already about the thin quality of the stuff, and imagining hot buttery salmon slithering about the kitchen floor in a doomed and mis-timed bid for freedom.  No such fear now!  Just bouillon to spill...

So long as my mother doesn't linger in bed again then the festivities for St John the Evangelist, the patron of us Scriveners, should be straightforward enough.  And who is coming? I have rather lost my grip.  Neighbours and friends, those who haven't gone away at any rate.

By the fire

Back at home after cycling about up and down the valley I found my mother still in bed, though she claims not to have been asleep so long into the afternoon. Most unusual.

I have belatedly lit the fire, having been putting it off not to to wake her, irrelevantly she claims.

I sat admiring the sunshine, and reading Democritus Junior - love melancholy now, religious to come.

The Synagogue of the Grecians

What a glorious bright day! All was quiet in the house, and most in the streets around this morning, with few police sirens wailing, and few neighbours putting out their empty bottles. I read the office, the litany, and the ante-Communion, wondering at the dispute that led to the proto-Martyr's death, and looking angelic at the heavens. I read some Homilies too: how incongruous the themes of that for the season would sound at the Nativity in churches now!

Then out to play on my bicycle, not a new one, but I was wearing new and very cosy gloves. O went down to Stratford through the town, past the poor shops of Leyton, marvelling at the trading, and the tinsel in the Muslim garages, and thinking of maps shewing indices of multiple deprivation though since I do not know how to publish a link you will have to find your own way to http://strategicdevelopment.london.anglican.org. Religious diversity goes with poverty, and there must be a story there. Diversity probably came to poverty, and brought its own poverty with it. There was plany of both to be seen in the mean and tawdry strees of this part of East London.

From Stratford I came back along the Lea Valley, up through Hackney Marshes, Leyton Marshes, Walthamstow Marshes, past Springfield Park, and to Tottenham. That bit was quiet, and bits of it were lovely in the bright sun and against the cold blue skies. The winter tress were beautiful browns, and the water glistened and sparkled, and I even heard it burbling.

There were rooks, and swans too up towards Tottenham; there were some people out for Boxing Day Walks, and various other cyclists, of different kinds, though nobody else in tweed and corduroy.

The Festive Board

I was rather pleased with Christmas dinner, especially with the pheasant, which were easily the best cooked that I have had this year. They do, of course, roast beautifully in the classic English way, but getting it right is so difficult, and all too often teh result is dry and dull. I stuffed these with prunes and almonds, garlic and spices (lots of cloves) enriched with butter to avoid dryness, and cooked them slowly in an earthenware pot, and am still pleased with the result - especially my mother, who is generally vegetarian, wanting more. The birds were moist and flavousome, and the jus needed no enhancement. Sprouts and red cabbage with apple, of course. Lady Balfour potatoes roast well, and organic parsnips with butter and honey ate well. I stand astonished too at my own moderation - Christmas and the solstice are about excess, but my wife and mother do not relish it on the plate or in courses, and I managed tnot to overload a groaning board.

Having discovered late in time that bubble and squeak is de rigeur on Boxing Day I am congratulating myself of having judged the quantities sufficiently well to have its ingredients now to hand.

Should I look up to the heavens like an angel? It is a long way from Arcadia.

Clerical Scrivening

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.