Taking Stock

I have long since stopped taking stock of my life each New Year’s Eve and instead today took stock of my socks and underwear; finding them both thin on the ground and thin in the fabric I decided it was time to re-stock and spent a tidy half hour in the Matalan store pondering over the quite bewildering array on offer, the sizes straightforward, the fabric mix less so and, in the case of pants, the range of styles a bit of a minefield with a whole new lexicon of terms to come to grip with – slips, briefs, hipsters, boxers, y-front, button up, keyhole (and the unspoken no-hole) and that is before the issue of colour is considered.

Deja View

Despite repeated viewings, Love Actually remains a favourite Christmas film, the superb ensemble cast raising the tone of the unashamedly sentimental well above the level of smultz in depicting love in all its guises – puppy, unrequited, romantic, sexual, asexual, sisterly, platonic, adulterous, unspoken, helpless and hapless; and as I write these words a feeling not only of deja view, but of déjà vu, descends as I feel I have already blogged on this film before after one of its many previous screenings.

The Stockton Flyer

For once, at 1 o’clock in Stockton, I was not only in earshot (that is easy enough as the racket created can be heard a mile away) but in close proximity to see the Stockton Flyer emerge from its plinth in the High Street to perform its bizarre but pleasing impression of an early locomotive with spinning wheels, rocking cams, puffing smoke, clanging bell and high-decibel hooter.

Les Temps, C’est Vrai

In town this morning I checked my new watch and saw the date had changed from MAR 27 to a puzzling MEIR 28, so I popped into the jewellers where it was purchased and discovered that my Swiss watch was not indicating the month but the day of the week in its own language, yesterday being Mardi and today some variation on Mercredi; the lady in the shop did something to make it read WED so for the time being at least my timepiece and I are communicating in the same lingo.

Watch Out

I received from my wife at Christmas a rather elegant wristwatch, somewhat old-fashioned in that it fails to act as stopwatch or alarm clock, fails to indicate altitude, water depth, phases of the moon, or sunspot activity, and fails to double the diameter of my wrist, instead merely telling the time and date while actually fitting under the cuff of my sleeve; however wearing it for the first time today I noticed the shop assistant had set it up a little fast – three months fast in fact giving the date as 27 Mar.

Boxing Day Match

One of the pleasures of watching Northern League football is the maintenance of age old traditions, such as the 3 pm Saturday afternoon kick off, and on bank holidays like today, a local derby with an 11 am start; my daughter and I were in a good crowd to see Shildon take on Bishop Auckland at Dean Street where, I reflected, people have similarly stood in the cold, the day after Christmas, for probably the last 100 years.

Christmas Spread(sheet)

Hosting the Christmas Day dinner requires a cool head, a sure hand and in our house an excel spreadsheet scheduling, between 07:30 and 13:30, the preparation and cooking (in two ovens and on five hob rings) of four meats (turkey, ham, sausage and bacon), eight veg (roast & boiled potato, carrot, swede, parsnip, red cabbage, peas and sprouts), five sauces (gravy, apple, bread and two sorts of cranberry) and some stuffing; the plan was effective, the food delicious.

Christmas Walk

Shopping all done and presents all wrapped meant we were able to take an afternoon stroll in bright if cool conditions, with the term Christmas walk not only applying to the time of year but also the seasonal headgear and reindeer-like prancing of one of our party.

Legless Turkeys

A turkey crown is a good choice for us, being relatively compact in the fridge and quicker to cook than the full bird, but with a liking for the darker meat we have to supplement it with a couple of turkey legs, similarly compact and quick to cook, however this year there must have been a lot of legless turkeys literally arsing around the fields, as Bolam’s in Sedgefield had hundreds of crowns for sale but not a single leg; so we ended up having to buy a whole bird that consequently took up half the fridge and which to cook we shall have to be up at the crack of dawn on Christmas morning.

Carol Humming

We are still catching up with Christmas – the tree only went up on Tuesday and the cards pegged up today – but the festive mood was boosted by the annual singing of carols around the village Christmas tree, although full-throated participation was inhibited by a street lamp being out and a shortage hymn sheets (or surplus of singers), which meant the well-remembered first verse of each song was sung with gusto, but the volume and clarity then rapidly declined as folk peered over shoulders at the dimly lit words of the less familiar lines, with me, for one, often resorting to a sort of backing-vocal hum until a chorus reasserted itself.

York

The traffic on the A19 was light, the seats on the park and ride bus were plentiful, and we found the streets of York un-crowded, so the Christmas Market trip began well and continued in the same vein with hot chocolate around the fire in Thor’s tent an excellent pie-based lunch in The Olde Starre Inn, and we even found time to do some productive shopping among the stalls to boost the “presents bought” list.

A to B

I have some sympathy for delivery drivers trying to locate addresses in our village, with the houses having names as well as numbers, and numbers often extended by the addition of A or B as properties have been split or in-filled, with the situation made worse with some properties having two doors at the front and some doors not belonging to houses at all but to passages through the to the rear of a terrace – and we contribute to the confusion by being a suffix A sandwiched between a number and its B-suffixed variant and also having two front doors; notwithstanding my aforesaid sympathy, at this time of year the repeated knocking on our second front door by people seeking the B house can get a little wearing and today it prompted me to stick a note on it confirming the door was “still A” with an arrow pointing the way to B.

Cat Calls

Returning home from the boarding cattery I was subjected to the usual protracted name-calling by the two cats – not insults just my own name that they have somehow learned to yowl loud and clear.

Long Stay Car Park

Our car’s sojourn in the long stay multi storey car park adjacent to the hotel lasted longer than planned when, having paid our £22 for two days stay, we found ourselves stuck, two or three turns of the spiral up, in a queue as the driver of a car at the front of the procession could not get through the barrier for love nor money – after about twenty minutes the money (and a man in a yellow jacket) must have done the trick as there was precious little love behind him.

The Big Day

A wedding day can go past in a blur so, as Father of the Bride, I took time throughout the day to deliberately savour events and commit images and sound-bites to memory: putting on the new suit, shirt, tie and shoes in the hotel room - rather like donning a new football kit ahead of a big game; the trip to my daughter’s house, cost free and efficiently if unorthodoxly by bus; observing unmolested from a corner an hour or so of beautician attention to the bridesmaids who needed no such embellishment but were determined to gild that lily; the first sight of the beautiful bride attired in her white; my other daughter, on bridesmaid duty, affixing my buttonhole; the taxi ride to the town centre, being set down fifty yards from the Council House and the sunshine walk through the parting throngs of Saturday shoppers who hailed us with congratulations and compliments; the pause inside the impressive building for pre-ceremony formalities with the registrar before gathering with the bridesmaids for the entrance; the emotional walk down the aisle to deliver my daughter to her future husband and then retire gracefully to my seat beside my own spouse and receive a reassuring squeeze of the arm; the moving and respectful civil ceremony with thoughtful readings, heartfelt vows and no few tears from bride, groom, parents and guests (and possibly even the registrar); the triumphant exit and, after some confused milling around, a straggling stroll out to the waiting double-decker bus; the swaying drive out to the reception venue and the inevitable hiatus waiting for the bride, groom and attendants to complete their city-centre photo shoot and join us; once they were, the frantic photo calls with the photographer battling against the fading December dusk and eventual dark to capture every conceivable combination on his list; sitting down to the meal - an unconventional but tasty tapas with fine wine, although for me a pint of ale was a preferred pre-speech lubricant; the speeches themselves, kicked off by my own, thankfully well-received, and taken up by the groom and best man, brothers and best friends, whose double act hit the right notes of irreverence, sincerity and humour; another hiatus as the tables were removed and the band set up, which gave an opportunity to admire the wedding ‘cake’ comprising a stack of artisan Durham cheeses and a display of the previous generations’ wedding day photos; then a ninety minute blast from the four piece band and two female vocalists who put together a lively, engaging and musically sound  mix of modern hits that had the younger ones bouncing and old classics that got the not so young strutting their stuff too; through it all the two six month old babies serenely watching or sleeping, oblivious to the admiring attention they unconsciously attracted; the limited taking up of the supper buffet of bacon rolls and cheese, pickle and biscuits, with most guests still full of sticky toffee pudding but willing to take a bit of a packed supper for later; back on the bus for the return journey, fuller, more raucous, and more swaying that the outward trip; most passengers disgorged at the hotel and for some a nightcap in the hotel bar; finally bed but for me little sleep as I replayed the events of my daughter’s big day, in my head, on one continuous loop.

Pre-Wedding Jobs

Having arrived in Nottingham to help with last minute preparations for the wedding I was trusted with three jobs: (a) buy a bag of sand to provide a safe repository for spent sparklers; (b) pick up the wedding dress (paying the balance due) and deliver it to my daughter with no sand attached; (c) extract the appropriate (rounded) amount from each of forty friends and relations of the betrothed couple already gathered in town for a night-before meal at the Ask Italian restaurant, and with the collected cash settle the £800 food bill, without upsetting, offending or committing fraud against any of them.

Game of Cones

Take 85 pine cones each with a groove cut in to hold a name card and insert 85 cards with names of wedding guests carefully penned on them; arrange according to the plan supplied into 10 egg tray boxes, cut to represent 10 tables; an hour or two later, once the model of the seating arrangements at the wedding feast is complete, wrap each “table” in cling film and pack carefully into stacker boxes for transportation 100 miles to the venue, hoping that the staff there will be able to make some sense of it all.

No Deal or Deal

Following Monday’s disappointment over my non-discounted Marigolds I happened to be passing Morrison’s supermarket this afternoon so popped in ready for an argument, but first, and wisely as it turned out, marched up to the cleaning aisle and checked the shelf – no sign of the 2 for £2 offer and a price of £2.41 rather than the £1.61; time travel not being an option I saw no alternative but to accepting the offer sign was a genuine error (or an hallucination) but I comforted myself with what now looks a good deal, beating a price rise of 80p a pair and so saving £3.20 anyway.

Xmas Quiz

The first Christmas quiz of the season was a bit of a toughie at the Vane Arms tonight, although each round started off with a question right up my street, as I could identify a favourite film (It’s a Wonderful Life) from its opening line, could complete a fiendish maths calculation (despite being well down my second pint), and knew the first tune in the music round (it being classical rather than pop); each round went downhill from there on but lacking the arcane knowledge of Christmas required we had fun debating which wild guess to plump for, getting a few right and hitting the post on a few more.

Deal or No Deal

Being the resident dishwasher in the house I need a ready supply of rubber gloves, so when I saw my preferred large Marigolds on offer in Morrison’s supermarket (£1.61 each but 2 for £2) I threw four pairs into the trolley, calculating a saving of £2.44; once home however I glanced at the till receipt and saw no sign of the discount, with all four pairs registered at the set price and no deduction shown at the bottom – an issue not worth jumping back into the car and racing back to the store for, but next time I’m passing …

Scones

Regular readers may have noticed my fondness for a scone and with today’s outing drawing a blank on the catering front I decided to knock up a batch of my own – two batches actually, one plain with a bit of sugar in the mix, and one cheese with a bit of grated Cathedral City cheddar; to add a seasonal twist to the latter I tried the inclusion of a splash of sherry (on the basis that cherry scones work so why not sherry) but as neither the cheese nor booze registered much on the palate both ingredients need boosting in the next bake.

Stadium

As a football ground Gateshead’s International Stadium falls somewhere between impersonal and soulless with today only four hundred or so fans scattered among the twenty-five thousand or so seats; I’ve heard more noise there when watching my son in the Northern Athletics Regional Championships with the young runners cheered on by parents and teammates, and the stadium can be really atmospheric when full, as for the Europa Cup athletics meeting a few years back when it rocked as Mo Farah stormed the last lap to win the 5,000 metres race.

Last Cut is the Deepest

Fir cones are not easy to saw, not because of any intrinsic toughness but due to their shape that precludes holding them in a mechanical vice and their spikiness that takes a toll on the necessary alternative – my hand; the proximity of the blade to fingers is also a danger but it was only as I fashioned the ninetieth and last of the little beasts (needed for wedding table decorations) that blood was finally drawn, still with some other weddings costing an arm and a leg, a mere finger is nothing.

Santa’s Labyrinth

Each December the local garden centre devotes the majority of its floor space to its seasonal offers and converts its only entrance to an Ikea-like labyrinth that forces customers to run the gauntlet of illuminated trees, animated reindeer & polar bears, fake snow, and a cheesy Christmas soundtrack, the process slowed further by the moving obstacles of small children in or out of buggies and their minders who just encourage them by pointing and ooh-arrhing as they zigzag unhelpfully along; I only wanted a pair of secateurs but even emerging from Santa’s grotto it was then a case of find the garden stuff in the garden centre – tricky but eventually located in a corner of the outdoor compound.

Kedgeree

My daughter’s turn to cook tea tonight, and she served up a delicious kedgeree made with smoked mackerel, hard boiled eggs and a savoury rice; the last mentioned component, though tasty, came at a cost of: (a) cardamom pods invisible to the naked eye but all too easily detected on the palate; (b) a pan whose stainless steel was no defence against a pebble dash coating of starchy grains.

Melbourne

The dress fitting was in Melbourne (an interesting village on the edge of the Peak District, not the Australian state capital of Victoria) and arriving early enabled us to pop into Jack’s Café for a splendid brunch – bacon baguette for me, smoked salmon and scrambled eggs for the bridesmaid - and a huge pot of tea that lasted us about an hour, and then me a further twenty minutes as I gave her a head start in the shop before joining to give an opinion (very nice) and take a photo (embargoed).

Sleeping Bag

My daughter’s fitting for her bridesmaid’s dress, scheduled tomorrow, necessitated a trip down to her sister’s in Nottingham for an overnight stay, and with my wife left behind at work it was a question of who bagged the sofa bed and who got the airbed; age was the trump card and as I was sleeping solo I had brought my sleeping bag, not used for at least ten years, which I found so snug and cosy it was almost enough to make me hanker after a bit of camping (but not quite).

Metro Textual

The need to pick up the elder daughter from Newcastle Airport meant passing, on our return, Gateshead’s gigantic Metro Centre on the first Saturday in December, but at only 10 am it was not a chance to be missed for my wife and daughter (and a chance not to be wasted for me to tick off an item from the things-I-don’t-want-to-do-before-Christmas-but-know-I-may-have-to list); after breakfast in Starbuck’s awaiting shop opening time I left them to it and spent my time in literary pursuits browsing books in Waterstones and sitting on a comfy chair outside House of Fraser reading the morning paper – what you could term being Metro-textual.

Doombar Landlord

This evening we enjoyed the simple pleasure of a quiet drink with friends, infrequently done these days without the distraction of a quiz, loud music or consumption of food; The Old Farmhouse provided a warm and comfortable setting and the real ale – Doombar and Landlord – an excellent lubrication, such that it was with some surprise that we found ourselves the last to leave apart from the outwardly patient, but probably inwardly fed up, bar staff.

Virtually Advent

One effect of our newly empty nest is the absence, for the first time in over twenty years, of an advent calendar (or two, or three), an omission I sought rectify, but being less than impressed with the overpriced gaudy cardboard boxes of indifferent chocolates I decided to make my own; lack of physical skill and materials led me to the notion of a virtual version, which I promptly fashioned within an Excel spreadsheet (there is little I cannot achieve with an excel spreadsheet) which daily reveals clues to the (real) location of a (real, good quality) chocolate.

Manchester Art Gallery

Passing through Manchester I headed for the Art Gallery, not visited since I worked in the city centre a quarter of a century ago, and spent a couple of hours there (with only a short interlude in the café); highlights for me were a room devoted to LS Lowry and Adolphe Valette (Lowry’s early tutor and influence), a couple of Canaletto-ish Bellotto’s, and the familiar ‘Cheetah and Stag with Two Indians’ by George Stubbs.