We are now in the throes of December.
Advent Calendars were consumed yesterday with raucous approval on the part of everyone else. I even bought Jason a Malteser calendar this year.
I did not have one. Chocolate based calendars are another thing I feel rather puritan about, and all the non chocolate ones I fell in love with were ten guineas an ounce, so I am sulking with Advent.
Like it totally cares what I think.
Whither the weekend?
On Friday night we decamped to granny’s house and went to the town lights switch on, where Tallulah was singing in the choir.
It was cold.
There was a fake snow machine which was rather like being trapped in a draughty bathroom with two toddlers full of excessive zeal and a great deal of Matey.
There was a solitary, miserable looking reindeer with a scabby antler.
This probably cost a bajillion pounds at least. When you have spent the last six weeks organising/failing to organise Christmas fairs, you realise that reindeer are a veritable luxury. We were offered two reindeer and an owl for £450. It didn’t matter that we didn’t want the owl. That was the price.
We are not having reindeer or owls at our Christmas Fair. In desperation we have also considered owls dressed as reindeer and dogs in reindeer style snoods.
Instead, we are having me, scowling with a bucket for donations. For £50 I will do an owl impression or a reindeer impression. Your choice. I will even do it on the blog for the nation to see for a paypal donation.
You are welcome.
There were fairground rides and a hapless DJ who mumbled into the microphone, his voice rising and falling above the ‘scream if you wanna go faster’ sound of the fairground rides.
The DJ booth was snuggled against the church in which the choir were singing. Whenever there was a lull in holy proceedings, the drone of the DJ and the thumping of dance music could be heard pounding gently through the wall.
It was not my best thing.
On Saturday morning we got up at the crack of dawn and assembled in granny’s kitchen ready for operation Good Food Show. My brother had bought us tickets for Christmas.
We set off for the NEC – my mum, my brother, me and the children.
I will not speak of the journey, there or back. Suffice to say that the next time one of my family tells me that it will be easier if we go by train, remind me to beat them about the head with a bit of two by four.
The show, once we had managed to trek eighteen miles around the NEC and nearly go to the motorbike show by mistake, and/or out of sheer desperation that we might never find it, was good.
I would, however, like to put in a plea for a) more seating areas for people with weary legs and small children with wearier legs b) more decent coffee stands for people who have just trekked the equivalent of K2 to get there and who are evil without requisite caffeine injections and c) less stalls selling graters.
I was impressed however, by the fact that I only saw one stand selling mops. I had expected more mops.
I was delighted to be proved wrong on the mop front.
My very kind brother buying us tickets to see the Master Chef show while we were there.
Seeing Jo Wheatley demoing some kind of Christmas bake on the Bake Off stand.
Seeing the top of Mary Berry’s head as she was escorted to a book signing by a phalanx of burly minders.
Having no idea who Gino D’Acampo was and getting him mixed up with Giorgio Locatelli. Having said this, I wouldn’t recognise either of them again.
Looking at a lot of cheese.
Buying my husband a bottle of Sipsmith’s London Gin for Christmas and them gifting me a free bottle of Fever Tree tonic to accompany it. This is less charitable of them when you consider how expensive Sipsmith’s gin is in the first place.
Oscar being gifted a box of hand pressed apple juice by the lovely people at Mannings juice company, who were so impressed when he told them it was the nicest apple juice he had ever tasted (it is lovely, and I don’t like apple juice), they took his picture and gave him a box.
By the time we got home to granny’s house we were all exhausted and footsore.
Sunday was spent recovering, regrouping for the frankly manic week that lies ahead of us, and by me road testing Aldi’s champagne, as recommended in the Saturday Telegraph food supplement. At £11.99 for a bottle it’s not half bad.