If by the second occurrence you’re able to refer to it as such, then we’ve just returned from our traditional Christmas Eve four-mile rampage, along Marshalswick Drive past the architectural grotesques (driveways and doorways are the new fake stone cladding), down to the local shops, left round the Ridgeway, up the snaking hill past J’s future school (where he now does breakdancing classes) and then a few lefts and rights to home.
The sun has been out all day, the suburbs, relatively free of cars, gleaming in the low buttery sunshine. Most people are out panic-buying or en route to Christmas encounters, love-ins stand-offs, escapes or rows. In fact the air smells clear and old as it will tomorrow when we all stay still (is it the stillest day of the year?).
So the rampage, or run to be more accurate, which last year was initiated to make it easier for us all to get to bed, is over, the endorphins are a-coursin’, we’ve had our ham sandwiches, the breadcrumbs are drying, the coal, logs and cat in. J is calling me to come and look at something he has unearthed from last year’s Christmas detritus – sounds like a laser blaster – and from the stairs I can hear Carols from King’s on Radio 4.
The weather is due to be clear and cold tomorrow. Snow is on its way from Moscow, we’re told, but it won’t reach us until Tuesday. The next door neighbours have driven back from Winchester to rescue their cat. Well, the bloke has returned in fact, on his own. We had to call them this morning to break the news (rather than break the window) that he had given us the wrong keys. So he had to sacrifice the better part of his Christmas Eve with his parents-in-law to drive home and let us in so that we could feed the cat. He seemed quietly phlegmatic about the 300 miles round trip.
Anyway, he’s gone now and we’ve given our kids permission to climb over the fence and hack into their holly bush for decoration for our pudding.
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