Roister-doistering
Our Baccanalian pre-Yuletide continued this week in spite of a reminder from our Choirmaster last Sunday that Advent is actually a fasting season. I’ve had the lush strings of Vaughan Williams and fugal Mendelssohn swirling around in my head since that concert. This mental looping replay thing always happens, and it’s always about a week too late to establish and set my part in my mind before I actually have to sing it in public.
We booked a pre-Christmas catch-up with friends at a longstanding local Italian restaurant a couple of months ago not realising that it becomes a top works do place, packed on Friday nights. Goodness, it was LOUD, not only because of the DJ pumping indeterminate dance music at high volume but also full of long tables of women - and a tiny smattering of men - dressed almost uniformly in sparkly black and squawking at each other at high volume through bottles of marked-up Pinot Grigio to make themselves heard over the music.
I first noticed when we went to Hong Kong that background music in restaurants has now become foreground music at a volume rendering one unable to have any meaningful conversation. Perhaps it’s because they don’t want you to think about the bill. I LITERALLY could not hear myself think on Friday night and it was as much as I could do to scan the vastly inflated (in my view) figure at the bottom of my receipt and wave a credit card before beating a hasty retreat to the sanctuary of a waiting Uber. When did restaurants turn into clubs?
I don’t - can’t - drink much these days, not that I ever really did. I do like a glass of wine with my meal and maybe a petit apéro but that’s usually all I can manage before I know that I won’t be myself the next day. These friends habitually drink somewhat more than this and my heart sank when we ordered the second bottle of wine. It’s impossible to keep track of how much you’re drinking when someone else is hospitably topping up your glass. Long story short I was quite hungover for most of yesterday, and that annoyed me.
Our choir friends threw their annual Christmas party last night and not a drop of alcohol passed my lips. It was all the better for it really as I enjoyed mulled apple juice and we sang loads of Christmas carols. There were at least three of us Descant Divas there warbling our hearts out. Descants are everything, baby!
I feel seen:
This popped up on my Insta a little while ago. It is, of course, a reference to the recent Gregg Wallace shenanigans. I can say with absolute confidence that I have never been subjected to lewd or sexualised comments by Wallace, in fact as I watch so little TV I have only a vague recollection of what he was in. Slogan merch was inevitable, of course, but I am concerned about which CHARITY benefits from the sale of these hoodies and t shirts. A cursory Google search tells me that they are made by Teemill, which makes sustainable charity apparel for organisations including “the UN and other globally-recognised think tanks,” but it all seems rather too vague to me. I’m also getting a massive ick at the thought of wearing something like this across my copious chest and somehow making light of the damage that sexual harassment does to people. I shan’t be buying one.
Chilling with the lad
Next to my heart
Just over two years after the death of my beloved Oscar, whom I loved with all my heart, I took delivery of this necklace, which contains a diamond manufactured in a Swiss furnace from some of his ashes and hair.
Oscar was my first dog and my introduction to the magic of a dog’s love. This is my tribute to him. It’s from a company called My Pet’s Ashes and I want to thank their Karen for her continuing attentiveness and kindness throughout the long process. It was worth it.
That’s more or less it for another week. I have a lot to think about it coming days and I’m really glad I’ve got most of my Christmas organisation out of the way.
This week sees our local party deadline for submitting ourselves as candidates for the 2026 council elections. Our campaign starts next month but I’m also wrestling with the magnitude of my forthcoming elevation to take charge of our local charity branch. There’s so much to learn, and the day to day management will take up much time and thought. I’m not sure that I have the bandwidth to take on both at the same time, even though the overlap between the two would only be for a couple of years.
Obviously, this led to a spiral. I’ve spent most of the last three decades suppressing my own career options and ambitions and being subsumed by the demands of bringing up and supporting my family. Now my children are gone without looking back and I feel that I’ve missed the boat, wishing that I’d never become financially dependent. I’ll be 60 next year, as you know and I wish that all of this had happened 20 or 30 years ago when perhaps my political career would have had more of a change to blossom and more prospects for longevity. Still, I guess I did what was necessary at the time and that’s all we can ask of ourselves.
Until next week, have fun, be safe. Don’t drink and drive.
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