Once again, and hopefully not for the last time during this wonderfully festive time of year, I am writing to you through a mildly fuzzy alcoholic haze, this is because we did not bother going to work.
This is terrifically lazy but I really don’t care, takings on a Wednesday night in December are rubbish anyway, and we have had an absolutely brilliant time being at home with the children.
We have got both of them home, it is beyond lovely.
It has been Oliver’s school carol service. This is always my favourite of all of the carol services we go to. It is held in their little school chapel. This was packed to bursting with cashmere overcoats and tweed jackets this morning: so much so that as we straggled in slowly, past a small boy energetically tugging the bell rope at the foot of the tower, teachers were rushing about dragging extra chairs from the library to squeeze us all in.
The chapel is beautiful, and might have been imagined by somebody with a special affection for the Nine Lessons And Carols. It is painted in gorgeous warm shades of terracotta and gold and soft muddy greens, with beautiful intricate patterns on the walls. The ends of the oaken pews had been carefully adorned with long strands of trailing ivy, and holly, and red velvet ribbon, each one with a bright candle flickering at its centre. This sort of lovely thing is not allowed in places where people can’t take care for themselves, but fortunately everybody could and none of us accidentally set a scarf on fire, even the boys, and some of them are only eight.
Oliver’s school can really sing. Their music master is quiet and slim and pale, and Oliver says that he doesn’t care whatever you do at all, absolutely anything is all right as long as you pay attention and sing in tune, and everybody loves him. I think I could love him as well, the music from school is among the most glorious I have ever heard.
The Nine Lessons are read by one child from each class, finishing with the Head Boy, then a teacher, then the Head Boy’s father, then a Governor, and the last one by the Head. I like this very much, the faces change but the tradition never does, like a thread stretching back to years and years before our time, and away into the invisible future past us, all we do is walk with the thread for a little while.
We sang until the little chapel was filled with the huge rolling sound, and everybody smiled at one another, feeling pleased to be a little part of it for a short time. In the end we filed out to the organ crashing through the magnificent chords of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor, thrilled to our very souls and excited beyond words because now the holidays were really starting.
We hauled Oliver’s bags back to the car and listened as he talked and talked on the journey back, until eventually he wound down, as if his batteries had finally surrendered, and the last of the journey was contentedly silent.
When we got back we discovered that naughty Roger Poopy had been bored and had pulled down his favourite red tinsel off the tree and eaten a Christmas decoration. This made everybody cross, but it wasn’t his fault really, he is just a poopy and really he should have been charging about at the farm, not penned up bored in the living room.
Mark and I went to Booths then, to get some shopping for the weeks to come, which cost an indecent sum of money, but Mark shrugged and said that it would see us over the rest of Christmas, which is true.
Afterwards I did ironing and Mark washed up and Oliver cooked some sausages for dinner, which we piled on a plate in the middle of the table and ate with olives and brie and crackers flavoured with tomato and pesto.
It is the nicest, happiest thing to be together. Oliver told dreadful school jokes and both children made us laugh so much that my face hurt. We are all here now, together and warm and safe, and it is brilliant.
I have attached a picture of my new teapot at the top, which actually came with its own little sugar bowl. We don’t use the sugar bowl because of not having sugar, but it is so pretty I thought I would put it in as well.
I would have liked to take a picture of the lovely chapel to show you, but I think it is probably not good manners to take photographs in people’s holy spaces, so you will have to just imagine it. Think of bright windows and vaulted ceilings and dark wood and candles and lovely warm colours; crammed to bursting with freckled boys in tweed jackets and beautiful mothers in soft coats and spicy perfumes.
Think of the music.
