Done

It is done.

Done, done, done and over, and that will be it until next August.

However it all went terribly wrong at the last minute.

I have as you know, been painting. I have been painting this year’s Advent calendars, which are a massive undertaking involving sore shoulders and a very great deal of staring out of the window, pondering.

They are the vehicle by which I keep all of our relatives informed of the year’s events. I stick lots of pictures on a bit of card with an opening door on every one. All of our relatives can then be treated to a daily image of some unidentifiable child, possibly with their head missing, and certainly rather sticky with glue, grinning and doing something improbable throughout December. Those are the ones where the doors open properly. It is not the sort of thing that you can road test first and so inevitably there are a couple of days upon which the doors stay firmly stuck shut.

This involves a great deal of three-dimensional thinking and a carefully drawn template plan. It goes one way up on one piece of card and the other way up on the back of the other. I am not good at this sort of thinking and it involves scowling and usually some swearing.

Then there are all sorts of little concerns. It would not be unusual for the only feedback to come from some aggrieved offspring complaining that there were more pictures of her siblings than there are of her. Hence, despite the fact that some of the children send me regular and detailed photographic updates of their lives whilst others do not bother at all, I have got to count carefully. I have got to find flattering pictures of everybody, illustrating some different event of their lives during the just-passed year, and also pictures in which I do not look fat. These last are the biggest challenge.

Sometimes, in emergencies even the dogs get a picture.

After that, or actually, first, because I have to leave the pictures for as long as I can to make sure I do not miss any late events, I paint the picture on the front. I do six of these, all more or less the same, with different howling mistakes on every one, before turning them over and slicing them up with a knife. Then I finish the painting by adding the numbers to the doors, counting and recounting every one carefully, to make sure I have not put any number on twice and some other not at all. This also involves some frowning.

Lastly I stick it all together, covering my entire office and the dogs in glue, and then I add glitter, which we will still be hoovering up this time next year.

This year I had not finished, and December First is looming large.

Despite hours and hours of getting paint on my dungarees, and of accidentally dipping my brush into my mug of tea, I was hopelessly late and had worked long into the night. Just on that note, it occurred to me this afternoon that the taste which could be said to define every November is the taste of painting water, absently picked up instead of tea. It is the evocative flavour of the season.

I finished the last one this afternoon. Mark was very kindly helping by then, cutting cardboard for wrapping them in and blobbing glitter on them here and there. The last one had to be dried with a hairdryer in order not to miss the last post, which was at half past four.

Mark went belting off to the post office at four twenty nine with all but one, which I was still wrapping, and then as soon as it was suitably festooned in parcel tape, I rushed after him.

I handed it over the counter just in time, and the lady nodded sympathetically.

Of course they won’t go any further than Preston, she said, because the post is on strike. They won’t get there for ages.

I was so cross I used some rude words, right there in the Post Office, and Nigel the Postmaster tried to pretend to be deaf, and looked down at his driving licence application forms.

All of that, and they will be late anyway.

If you are expecting an Advent Calendar it will be late. I am very sorry indeed, not to mention furiously cross with the tiresome Marxists in charge of our delivery service. If I had known I would have rung DHL. Be assured this is what I will do next time.

Still, it is done and finished, and I can turn my attention back to jam making.

Mince pies coming soon.

It is all happening at Ibbetson Towers.