Luminaries

Is it true that the more dire the times, the more frivolous the people?
There are boringly common trees along the main road which have been blushing with embarrassment since the start of November. Switching On The Lights is suddenly the Thing to do in your village/town. The Community is encouraged to contribute to the cost of street decorations. Eager to be seen to partake, generosity prevails.
Market Street looks like Blackpool.
It's all very nice.
I remember walking to Brownies at this time of year, looking out for lighted Christmas trees in peoples windows.
Now there are so many outside lights (garden trees, random reindeer, icicles hanging from roofs - even some ghostly projected santa images on one house) street lighting seems superfluous.
It is all very nice.
We are encouraged to have a smart meter (which, contrary to the adverts, does NOT save you money, only tells you just how much energy you are using) and recycling is promoted widely. I have heard there are new ways to enhance the efficiency of solar power.
This may be useful in the coming year.
To 2019 - may it contain only good times!

not quite there, yet....

It's 7am, driving to the Market. I know it is still September, but I also know it is autumn.
Last night a huge and bright, full  harvest moon floated in the clear night sky.
This morning skeins of geese honk as they streak across a milky pink sky. Mist lies two foot deep over river-edged fields, horns of Highland cattle just peeping through the top.
Seasons used to drift gently, one in to the other but this year has been decisive, positive, dramatic.
Snow, cold, cold snow in April, smothering the brave spring flowers, as incongruous as snow on orange trees in Cordoba.
Then a hot, dry summer, the kind we all think we remember from our school days. When plants that didn't wilt rushed to flower,  set fruit and then die back.
There is a second, super-abundant fruiting on fig trees; bean pods hanging from wisteria; holly hedges splattered liberally with blood-red berries.
There were Ink cap fungi pushing through the grass at Whitbarrow at the beginning of the month. Now windfall apples, crab apples and quince cover the ground.
Not quite October yet the newly swept and lined chimney is warming with a log fire.
Is it time to change the quilt? Draw the curtains in the evening? Hunt out the winter woolies?
Discard the salads and brew up some tasty stews and soups?
It is now lunchtime and I am glad I chose a shirt, not a jumper. The previously frost-rimed roses are now glowing in the sun, with a hint of fragrance in the air.
The jumpers can stay a little longer in the cupboard.

is evolution always good?

Words are wonderful. Language is colourful, expressive, a delight to hear.
Which is why some things really grate on the ear.
I enjoy watching 'Only Connect' but then one week there was a question about the position of chess pieces on the board - and they spelt 'knight' with an N.
'Pointless', that tea-time favourite, had a chemistry question and I have to ask, when did they begin spelling 'sulphur' with an F?
I have kind of got used to railway station being train station, but then on the radio a presenter was talking about 'plane rides'.
Isn't that a 'flight'?
Or am I an old stick-in-the-mud?

Dreamer

The icy blue horizon melted in the heat of a spectacular sunset. Spectacular, that is, to one who was young enough to be unused to such cosmic beauty. A man might live lifetimes and always be awed by the sight, but not this man. He was tired, exhausted. Desperate to rest, yet unwilling to call a halt until he was absolutely sure. He needed to be sure.
Even so, lack of energy was not the reason his appreciation for awesome nature had dulled. Time had done that, Time and over-familiarity.
Besides, distraction wasn't an option, he needed to be sure about this place. So much time had been wasted in the past by false assumptions. That was the main reason he was here, here and now.
So he plodded on, a faded man in a fading landscape.
If recalling him to mind, one would describe the traveller as old. Not because he looked it (although he did). The immediate impression of age had little to do with the superficial wrinkles and lines which mapped his skin, or the slow and painful gait which dogged his steps. The hands, hidden inside soft grey cotton gloves, clung to two plastic carrier bags which, although well worn, were life bags from a prestigious supermarket.  One contained something large and bulky, the second some smaller, angular items of some weight. His clothes suited him, but ill-fitting in a way that suggested he was once a bigger man and the years had in some way, shrunk. The white cotton shirt had been freshly laundered when donned that morning, the dreary tie only serving to draw attention to its fraying collar. His heavy, stained, old-fashioned mackintosh flapped rhythmically against khaki-coloured crimplene trousers which implied smartness with their permanent creases but failed to disguise the emaciated legs on which he forged determinedly ahead. The last dying shafts of sunlight bounced off an aluminium dustbin and on to the shiny leather of his shoes which had been spit-and-polished until they gleamed. No sign of the waxed cardboard cereal packet covering the small hole in the heel. Not an ideal solution if torrential rain was expected, but he did not. Although failing to give any indication of it, this man was an inveterate optimist.
        He halted for a moment to collect his thoughts. Surely it must be soon? There had to be some hint, some sign. had he missed it? But no, he was far too experienced for that. There had been nothing for days, of that he was sure.
It was barren. All of it. His thoughts. The sky. Nothing seemed to move or grow.
Only the sun, as it moved on its remorseless journey through the false dome.
Only his anticipation, which grew from his blistered heels to a total awareness within his mind. The undoubted beauty of the varied garden landscapes passed his monochrome vision with a complete lack of appreciation. He could have been walking on the moon for all the impact they made. The peaceful silence of an oasis stranded between two thunderous motorways went unacknowledged.
On he walked, or staggered as it appeared, wrapped up in his own world. The head, slightly bowed with care, sunk a little from the shoulders. Once tall and proud, a handsome man well-liked and respected by contemporaries, with real purpose in his life.
Now though, with silver grey hair curling thickly over his ears, sticking out from under the tweed cap, his plans had changed.
        Legs trembling he almost stumbled as he staggered forward. No-one was around, so he was spared the hurtful comments about drunks, tramps and undesirables. It took more effort to push himself onwards, through the playground where children had, only moments before, expended more energy than an adult could remember having in a whole week. Through the green-painted wrought iron gate with groaning hinges, across black tarmac and onto the cobbled path. Something about the uneven surface appeared to jog his self absorbency as he hesitated and looked about expectantly.
Left? Right?
But no, nothing.
Aimlessly, he wandered to the left.
         He sighed and his shoulders drooped. The action gave him pause as he recognised the release of some unacknowledged tension. Cautiously, the huddled shoulders rotated in their once waterproof armour and a second sigh escaped their owner. The silvery down which covered his neck rubbed irritatingly against the woollen scarf, now moist and sticky.  Impatiently he pulled and  dropped it to the floor, along with the tattered, plastic bags. He drew in a long, slow, deep and searching breath, meant to reach every corner of his being.  With eyes closed as the air was reassuringly inhaled, the bent figure gradually straightened, stretching upwards, outwards. The shoulders pushed down,the head curved high. Back arched, shoulder blades almost touching. Still the slow inhalation continued, tantalising, as he savoured each tiny movement. Face heavenwards the shoulders rotated anti-clockwise once more.
A final deliverance from all tension. That bliss be made of such simple pleasures! A twisted smile touched the grimy face as the man noticed for the first time in days, just how wound up he had  allowed himself to get.
Ridiculous!
So he stood there for some minutes savouring the peace, ignoring the discarded bags, the fallen cap and scarf, the mizzling rain.
Rain? Rain? When did that happen?
          Peace of mind fled as the gathering moisture on his skin registered in his brain. There had been no grey clouds in the dusky, sun-streaked sky of only a few moments before. Clear horizons had promised fine weather for the following day.
        With eyes stubbornly shut the uncovered head shook impatiently. So what? Autumn was changeable, everyone knew that, but before he could recapture that mental ease, the deafening sound of aggressive commotion bombarded his ears. Closed lids flew open revealing eyes black with fear. His body shrank inwards, small and tight as when he had first entered the alley.  Hastily, he snatched the discarded green and orange bags, the paisley scarf, brown leather gloves and tweed cap from the floor and scurried in to the only available cover, a shallow doorway in to someones backyard. An agitated flick at the latch told him it was bolted from the other side. He hit the blue peeling paint with frustration, then turned back as the disturbance came noisily nearer the alley. The doorway was barely body-deep, but it had to suffice as the altercation skidded in to his darkened view, from the upper end of the passage.
          It was some poor wretch, bleeding and dishevelled, stumbling blindly over the slippery cobblestones in a vain attempt to outrun his persuers.  They were close behind, tumbling after him through the slushy mixture  of sopping garbage and blood-red stained snow with cudgels held high in readiness. Pressing vainly in to the space, he man did his best to merge in to the background, out of the moonlight,  praying the bright beams would not fall his way. In some honourable part of his mind, he regretted his cowardice, but at this moment he was too frightened even to feel pity for the unfortunate victim. Unheeding, the villainous trio rushed past and on, he allowed himself the luxury of breathing again. Though gently, as they had not gone far.
          The attackers caught up with their quarry some six paces ahead and after lashing out with their weapons once more, were now stripping the unresisting form of all that was valuable. One searched the pockets and pulled at the clothing while another grabbed the leather pouch, gripped in the dying mans grasp. Impatiently, the ruffian smashed at the unyielding hands until a useless pulp and the bag could be wrenched away. Strangled gasps of pain rent the air, mixing with the sickening sound of pummelled flesh. With a satisfied grunt, the chief attacker eventually snatched the prize and tucked it firmly inside his thick brown leather jerkin. The moonlight caught his hand and the sentinel in the doorway noticed a curious joining of small and ring finger on the left hand. The right hand nudged impatiently at his companion who was still rummaging around the body for the odd pin or trinket. Then, with a furtive glance all round, up and down the alley.  The man pulled back in to his meagre shelter as they clattered off down the hill, in to the night.
         The huddled shape in the beige coat slumped to the floor, his shaking bones collapsing with relief, blanched face tucked between his knees. When he felt confident that neither nausea nor villains would return, he stood up and took a shaky step or two out in to the open, showing a belated concern for the victim. Although it was almost certain he was now beyond anyones help.
He stopped suddenly as the sunlight made him blink in surprise.
He looked up and down the grey alley. Twice.
There was no victim.
There was no rain, sleet or snow.
There was no night. 

So today life is almost normal.
The Kings have travelled successfully around the room and arrived at the crib. Decorations are once more packed up and stored in the attic. Most people are back at work, the school run
re-established and the weekly shopping list is growing sensibly on the notice board. Even the queue at the tip is down to just a few people with bits and pieces from the garden.
What did your Christmas look like?
Like this?

Or this?

Have you recovered?
We plan for this winter festival with childish enthusiasm, encourage everyone we meet to join us for food and crackers like a desperate parent and then, joints creaking, we stagger from fridge to larder, foraging for food because we are too tired to contemplate cooking anything ever again.
Ah, then the sales start, our energy surges and bank balances shrink.
Well, at least we have bargain cards and wrapping paper for next Christmas (providing it doesn't get lost in the mean time).
The days are getting colder, but also longer. Summer will come. But for now, where is my comfortable rut, my safe and natural place in life?
Hurray for January 7th.