It began with a birthday: mine, as it so happens. A few days ago. How old? Let’s just say that my age is a number that provides the twinnage with the impression that they’re geniuses for having successfully counted so very high. Yeah, thanks boys. In my head, I’m still down wiv da kidz. But then, my 96-year-old grandmother said to me the other week that she still feels young until she remembers that her own daughter is now a grandmother. That fact makes her feel very old indeed. (None of us were particularly early breeders.)
For my birthday, I was given a wonderful print by David Day. Now that’s my kind of landscape:-
Also I was given an elegant wrought iron wellie-boot holder and an ornate boot scraper, both of which I love. Anyway, back to this week.
Half way through the morning of my birthday, the phone rang. It was the hospital where I work. You know, I’ve changed my mind a hundred times about writing this post. I never know how much serious stuff to put in my blog, so I tend to err on the side of frivolous. But there hasn’t been a great deal of knitting/crochet this week, and there is a reason for that. The phone call brought dark news. There was a terrible fire on my ward, and tragically, one of our patients died in the inferno. There is more, but it wouldn’t be appropriate to write it here. Let’s just say that the extreme heroism of my colleagues who were on duty that night definitely prevented more deaths from occurring. So you’ll understand that it hasn’t been a normal week, and that I’ve been at work more than usual, and that I’ve had a propensity in the evening to stare at mindless internet junk rather than doing anything constructive. Half the hospital stinks of smoke, and there are police guarding the entrance to what remains of my ward. Sad times indeed.
Sorry, you probably didn’t come here to read such stuff today. Let’s lighten the mood. I can’t show you a finished knitted Christmas garland yet, but I can show you my subversive Christmas decorations that I made a few years ago. I always enjoy putting them out on the tree. There’s the Father Christmas who’s succumbed to beer and fags:-
And the slightly more innocent festive cow:-
There’s the cheeky beaver that felled the Christmas tree:-
And the stained glass window:-
And finally my favourite, the little Father Christmases hatching (and in one case abseiling) from a bauble. I’m really quite proud of this one. Those were the pre-kids days when I had time to design and paint such things:-
But that’s just my over-silly imagination. I really do need to begin thinking about Christmas properly, but I confess that events this week have interfered with the process. This weekend, I’m going to sort it. All of it. Effortlessly and efficiently.
As you’ll understand, time away from work has been precious and important this week. Time to just be normal and carefree and to watch the twinnage kick up leaves:-
Time to cook a huge pan of comfort food, with venison and onions and garlic and celeriac and wine:-
And lots and lots of pearl barley:-
And then mixing some dumplings using flour, suet, thyme, salt, lashings of black pepper, and water:-
…Which taste rather delicious in the finished meal, if you’re in need of winter comfort food:-
And my favourite vegetable was available at the local farm shop:-
Such comforts help. And then late, late, late in the evening, there’s always the chance to step outside the front door and stare up at the winter moon beyond our tower:-
The world carries on turning, it would seem.