Seasonal wrap
Christmas and New Year comes
and goes, each of us observing long-held customs, traditions and conventions.
“I feel stupid and contagious
Here we are now, entertain us”
Here we are now, entertain us”
However, there are always
firsts. For a generation and more, I had successfully swerved any public participation
in karaoke and its various game-console offspring. Until this year’s office
party - my first in the new job. I was undone by Nirvana’s ‘Smells Like Teen
Spirit’, a colleague with a shared penchant for classic grunge, and a handful
of bottled Kentish Town IPAs. I fear the air-guitar moves with full windmilling,
gyrations and screwed up eyes may bring a premature end to yet another
promising career-move.
The karaoke quickly became a
full-throated, impassioned group sing-a-long encompassing everything from
‘American Pie’ to ‘Mr Blue Sky’ via ‘Wannabe’ and the evergreen ‘Bo Rap’. I
distinctly remember one of the tutors gorgeously crooning ‘Summer Wind’ with
the girls providing a back line of smooth, improvised Fifties swing moves,
whilst the boys hung out stage left raggedly choreographing nothing more
ambitious than clicking fingers.
My singing voice is tuneless
growl at the best of times. Coupled with an inflamed larynx (bless) from a heavy
cold (double bless), my unearthly howl over Nirvana’s finest moments was
something even the hounds of Hades would have struggled to emulate. Later, I briefly
diverted to the kitchen for a satisfying cough and retch, before rejoining the
chorus line. “That’s better. Just wanted to get my phlegm up”, I said to my
female co-worker, with as much honest northern charm I could muster. She’d never heard a chat-up line like it.
The lovely northern charm quota
was further boosted at home when Dad and Bruv joined us for Christmas. The
anticipation of the season is always the best part and having them down a day
earlier than usual afforded a chance to go over to Waddesdon Manor for their
Christmas Light installation. Squeezing the last drops out of the National
Trust annual membership was honestly only a very small part of the motivation.
Can’t knock the gaff, though.
Waddeson was completed by Baron Ferdinand de Rothschild in 1885 as a mere
Summer retreat in which to entertain extravagantly and show off opulent collections
of art, ceramics, jewellery, furniture and the like. The architectural inspiration
is pure Loire Valley chateaux. The plonk alone, bearing complicatedly
calligraphed labels and stacked deeply in the expansive cellars, is priceless
before you even consider the ostentatious buildings, manicured grounds and gilt
contents of this ridiculous Gothic pile.
Getting to the house required
the organisational effort of a D-Day beach landing. From the drop off point to
car park to the ticket booth to the shuttle bus to the mansion itself. We persuaded Dad that a wheelchair would be a
good idea, so he could see more of the grounds. This was an inspired idea,
until we took an unexpectedly ambitious route to the stable block. Lady
Margaret’s Walk, though charmingly decorated with lanterns made by the
enthusiastic hands of local primary school children, involved more of an
off-road, all-terrain experience on the muddy track than we were anticipating. At
one point the chair was sliding sideways towards an escarpment whilst I
wrestled with the handles, gently tutting at the poor traction offered by the
wheels. In the half-light Bruv came to the rescue with a sharp shove to the
right.
After the light show
projected onto the front of the house, we quietly returned the wheelchair to
its berth by the bus stop, leaving the splayed-wheel, twisted-frame, mud-caked
carriage for its next careful owner.
Christmas Eve afternoon in
The George with CB-D and Jules has become a very enjoyable new Festive addition
to the day’ traditional conventions (which also include Secret Santa, hot ham, cold
pickles and single malt). On the other hand, when the Big Day arrived, there
was no customary welcome into our house by Daughter No 2, who as long as can be
remembered had always bellowed “It’s Christmas!” from the top of the stairs at
7.30am. Even as a 16-year-old last year, she had felt compelled to drag us from
our beds as early as possible. But not this season. Not until 9.30am did the ‘kids’
get up. With the arrival of new traditions, so pass the old ones.
“That will come in handy”
said Dad, admiring the present Mrs A had bought him and Bruv for Christmas, “…picture
frame!” The frame actually held a fascinating monochrome photo of our family
home since 1968, and indeed where my Bruv was born. Taken in 1935, the row of houses
that contained our abode was still pristine and uncluttered, presented prior to
the addition of disfiguring dormers, bays and porches. The trees opposite
looked like fruit bushes compared to the size they are now; and a figure could
be made out parking his bike in front of the long-closed corner shop. Anyway,
good to know the frame will be useful...
And then another set of spectacular
presents from Mr Fernie, who has an enviable track record in this department,
it has to be said. T-shirts this year. A job lot of them requiring the
construction of a 'what a difference a Dave makes' team photo. Ho. Ho.
Board games get wheeled out,
as befits yet more traditions, before the torpor of over-indulgence takes hold.
That Christmas night it was simple Charades followed by more complex Rapidough.
My Dad can be a bit unpredictable when it comes to these creative games. His
picture of a ‘telephone’ in a round of Pictionary a few years back has become
legendary, so far removed was it from any instrument of communication ever
invented. Once again, his Rapidough
plasticine efforts did not disappoint. This was his glorious offering for ‘bikini’:
During Twixtmas (I can do
marketing speak), Mrs A went to the Nutcracker with Jules, who observed my wife
bursting in to tears on four confirmed occasions, with the suspicion of a good
deal more unseen emotional moments. The ballet. That’s a right good night out,
then.
Deeper into Twixtmas, we pitched
up next door for a few drinks with an assortment of neighbours. I was chatting
to a couple from up the road whom, being an active neighbourly sort of bloke, I’d
never met before. In amongst the chit chat with them about the weather and
house prices, they introduced their kids and remarked how tall they were
growing. I launched into some Poirot-like interview, quizzing them about the
possibility of tall genes within the family, parents’ siblings who were unnaturally
tall and the like. I didn’t really notice Mrs A giving me a warning look.
Neither did I pay any attention when she drew her finger repeatedly across her
throat. I was relentless. “Funny how these things can skip generations”, I went
on. My new friends smiled politely. Turns out that they adopted their children
about 10 years ago… How was I supposed to know?
By the time New Year’s Eve hove
in to view, we were creating a new tradition: year-end crazy golf. Yes, CB-D and
Jules had spotted a great looking course on their way back from Stanmore one
day and knew immediately the family who would want to join them. Daughter No 2
even pulled a sickie from work to come.
We were not alone. ‘Lost Jungle’ was humming. Many thrill-seekers were crawling over 36 holes of extreme adventure golf, crammed with jungle animals, island holes, Aztec tombs and lost shipwrecks all built on a man-made hill in suburban Hertfordshire. Once you’ve taken an easy par two on a hole behind a curtain waterfall, there really is not much left to achieve in the game.
We strolled over to Aldbury
with the dog later in the day, savouring the prospect of the walk and a quiet beer
before the return to work.
But people just can’t get enough in these parts. The
place was packed. We discovered that there’s a tradition of music in the
village on this bank holiday. The Valliant Trooper had Morris Men flayling their
hankies and jangling bells in the beer garden; and over in The Greyhound,
locals were turning up with guitars and violins for a session in the front bar.
We found the edge of a table
in The Valliant Trooper for a bite to eat. The other corner was shared with a
bloke called Alan and his wife. Alan was as chatty as his partner was silent. He
had a lot to tell us. From shunting patterns in the Willesden Goods Yard to the
recycling habits of his local pub near Hitchin. He had some photos of metal tomb
markers taken in the village church yard that he was itching to show us. We
felt it was probably time to leave.
That was a wrap.
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