December Doldrums

[Sweder]

Tales from Christmas part I – The Marshall

I have to share my great joy at the arrival of a new DAB radio in my life.
Not just any DAB radio; rather THE Planet Rock/ PURE Evoke 1XT Marshall edition, created in the image of the mighty Marshall amp used by all respected rock musicians. Complete with auto tuned ‘Planet Rock’ button and a volume control that – yes – goes all the way to eleven, it’s every head-bangers’ wet dream – and it’s mine.

Even now I’m trawling the ‘net to locate the accompanying stereo speaker – also decked out a la Marshall and powered by the astonishing Marshall 3 inch co-axial speaker. It rocks.

Tales from Christmas part II – Stuffed

On Christmas morning, as is traditional here at Head Towers, a variety of guests arrived to partake of large glasses charged with Bucks Fizz. Somehow the addition of orange juice makes the draining of large amounts of fizzy wine acceptable from a very early hour. I’d just bade farewell to the Gorringe family as they teetered off to check on their kitchen situation and the in-laws had arrived. Mrs S and her Mum were making headway in the kitchen, preparing vegetables whilst the ridiculously large free range turkey slowly tanned in the gas-fired solarium of our oven. Pleasantries had barely been exchanged in the living room when a loud shriek erupted from the kitchen, followed by ‘OH MY GOD!!! MUM!!! YOU DIDN’T!!!’

Mum, it turns out, most certainly did.
On Christmas Eve Mrs S’s Mother, a resident of Lewes and frequent visitor to Head Towers, popped in to ‘help out’. Mrs S had been busy all afternoon, preparing and cooking her nut loaf for the big day – Mrs S is a vegetarian of some twenty years standing – and had sunk, tired and emotional, into her sofa clutching a large glass of Cloudy Bay. The rigours of grinding a variety of nuts, part cooking mushrooms and carefully layering them into a baking tin had taken a heavy toll.

Gorse (repeatable son-in-law nickname) elected to stuff the turkey, a job that I didn’t fancy and Mrs S, as a non-eater of dead flesh, rightly refused. Sadly neither of us took the trouble to point out the precise location of the seasonal stuffing, and so the dear lady took the small but perfectly formed, cooked and ready to eat veggie roast, scooped it out by the handful and slowly, deliberately, rammed it up the large birds’ jacksie, finishing off with a large apple just to make certain there was no chance of a last minute escape.

It took several seconds, during which a large and distant bell tolled and a wicked wind whipped around the house, for this to sink in, then several painful minutes for me to stop laughing, tears falling like rain to splash on the freshly briwaxed parquet.

Gawd bless us everyone.