Getting There

In my search for the Spirit of Christmas, I came across these stories:-

At a school in Derby, three six year olds were playing the wise men in the school play. As they came to Mary & Joseph at the stable, the first one handed over his present and said "Gold", the second presented his gift and said "Myrrh", then the third one gave them his & said "And Frank sent this."

Or from another school, two little girls were talking about their roles in the Nativity play. "I'm going to be a virgin." one announced smugly. "That's nothing" replied the other, "I'm going to be an angel". "Well my mummy says its much harder to be a virgin." retorted the first.

Or what about the boy who only had one line to say in the Christmas Play, which was "I am the light of the world". On the night though, he froze at the sight of so many people, but his mother was in the front row and she started to mouth the words for him. Following her cue, he summoned up his courage and shouted "My mother is the light of the world!".

I'll report back with anymore I find & I'll also finish the Jongleurs story!

Jingle Bells at Jongleurs

Now about this Christmas Do. I distracted myself by talking about minicab drivers & their lack of direction. Driving-wise that is, not career or life-wise. I just couldn't believe it when he asked me the way! I gave him the full address and I'd even printed a map from the Jongleurs website, but he still didn't have a clue. Eventually, he went as far as he could go in Watford High Street, then dropped me off outside a lap-dancing club. Now I ask you, is that any way to treat a lady?

So there I was, dressed up to the nines and all alone, down a dark side street, outside a lap-dancing club. I suddenly remembered the wonders of mobile technology, but decided not to pull out my cute, pink mobile just yet. I needed to get past the tall guy in the shop doorway, hiding his face beneath the wide brim of his hat & turned-up collar of his long, black coat. He was glancing at me, furtively, from the corner of his eye. "Maybe he's a pimp" I thought, "on the lookout for that much-sought-after genre of females: middle-aged, reasonably well-preserved & desperately in need of a few bob to get their kids through Uni". But I wasn't having any of that... "Oh No Buster, you make one move on me and you're pussy food.... I mean cat food, kitty litter, whatever....just don't even think about it, OK?" So with those words in mind, I tottered past him, in my high-heeled boots, & out into the main street, where I pulled out my phone. "Kerry, help me!", I whined, "The driver was a moron & I don't know where I am!". "Where are you?" she said helpfully. Frantically, I looked around for landmarks. "I'm near Burger King" I said. "Oh No! Flossie... you're quite a long way away!" Great! You wait till I get my hands on that driver! Or better still, I'll make friends with that pimp & get him to do my dirty work! But in the meantime, I had a Christmas Do to attend, so off I trotted, as fast as my spaghetti legs could carry me (damn you Shelley... can I never forget?). Down the High Street I went, under the bridge, past Chicago, like Kerry told me, & there it was.... at last, the bright lights of Jongleurs!

The Knowledge

It amazes me how many minicab drivers don't know their way around. They should be forced to do "The Knowledge" like proper "black cab" drivers. Do they seriously think I can give them directions? This is the woman who took 3 hours to drive from Feltham to Epsom & was finally shown the way by a deaf lady. That was shortly after I'd driven through the gates of a large mansion house, hoping to get directions from the butler. After parking beneath some trees, I walked nervously across the crunchy gravel drive & stared at the imposing front door. I then wondered whether I should look around the side for a Tradesman's Entrance, but as I walked past an enormous bay window, I couldn't resist the urge to peer through it. I pressed my face lightly to the glass, with my hands held up to shut out the sunlight. It took a few seconds to focus, but then, to my deep embarrassment, I saw several people seated around a large oval table, gazing back at me with various expressions of bewilderment & confusion. I smiled weakly & drew back a few inches, as a man rose awkwardly to his feet. He'd only taken a few steps, when the others began to push back their chairs & stumble, frantically, towards the window. It was then that I realised this was no ordinary family gathering and no ordinary posh house in the wealthy commuter belt. It was a mental home, or to be more PC, a residence for the mentally challenged. I will refrain from further detail, but I think it's fair to say that I gave the poor devils a bit more excitement than they would normally experience during Sunday Afternoon Tea.

I decided it was unlikely that these chaps could give directions to the Polo Club Barbeque, so I jumped back into my old MG & reversed, pretty sharpish, down the drive & shot off down another country lane..... which was where I met the deaf lady.

Goodwill Hunting

I'm trying hard to catch that illusive, wispy thing called Christmas Spirit, but with my father-in-law going blind & my sister-in-law's husband dying from some horrible, Alzheimer's-like disease, the task is even harder than usual. In addition, my colleague's father died 2 weeks ago & the mother of my brother's 2nd ex-wife died yesterday. Do more people die at Christmas, or is that just an illusion, created because we have such high expectations of the "festive season"? Perhaps it just seems less of an injustice at other times of the year. Christmas is supposed to be a time of joy & goodwill, so what's with all the sadness? The word "supposed" is probably important because, to a certain extent, it's up to us to make the joy & goodwill, but there's not much we can do about death & Alzheimers.

ANYWAY, I'm going to move on & resume my search for Christmas Spirit.... and I don't just mean in the drinks cupboard! In my next post, I shall tell you about my Christmas Do at Jongleurs. Bet you can hardly wait!

Free Love

To my friend, Stefan: My conscience? I hope not. I hate my conscience. Admittedly, it stops me doing things I would probably regret at some later date, but these days it stops me doing things I would only regret a little, in the short term, but in the long term, they'd make great stories. But is life about stories? If the stories are real, I think it is.

I don't remember a red dress. There was one my Mum made from a revolutionary new material called fibreglass, but that was a beautiful pale apricot colour. The design was a variation of the tent-dress, with a front pleat & mandarin collar, edged in gold braid. Trouble was, halfway through the medal presentations, it began to itch like crazy. Mum later discovered it was only meant for curtains.

Believe me Stefan, you're not the only one to think that the age of free love passed you by. I was lucky, but I hasten to add that love is never entirely free. I think part of my luck was due to my Mum being pretty "hip". I remember her telling me "Say Yes to everything and as often as possible!". Fortunately, I was sensible enough to realise the dangers of taking that philosophy too far. Can I thank Gumley for that? Probably not. Norah lasted there longer than I did, but she was pregnant by a married man at 18 and dead from cervical cancer at 30. No, in truth, it was my parents who stopped me from going too far. Their love for me was total & the thought of letting them down unthinkable.