Last night I went to a Christmas concert at St John the Baptist’s. Reluctantly. I bothered only because Daughter was performing – she was playing flute. I wouldn’t have gone otherwise, what with life being full to the brim with post-election trauma therapy, Christmas shopping, cleaning, addressing envelopes on copious Christmas cards and generally just chasing my own tail.
It was a life-saving experience (just about as I had lost my will to live). It was elevating and heart-warming. I bleated my socks off joining the choir in carol-singing. Husband had to rib me a few times to shut me up as in my enthusiasm I attempted to turn some brilliant solos into catastrophic duets.
That one short spiritual trip has made me realise that there are nasty-little, bothersome things in life that seem to dominate everything else and leave you with no space to breathe, but when you get a chance to shove them out of the way you will see the light at the end of a tunnel, and you will pump up your chest and stand tall above them. And whilst standing tall, you will see high and far – you will see that grander, better world out there. It’s all there, just obscured from sight by those nasty-little things. Just like the wood that you can’t see for the trees. It’s a question of scale and proportion.
So now the News channel is banned from the house, music CDs replaced Radio-blinking-4 in my car, I eat cake for breakfast, wear a Santa hat and burn scented candles. If the world must fall apart, it will have to do it without me. I am having a jolly this Christmas.
Astonishing how life imitates fiction! In DI Marsh’s third outing, Thicker than Blood, Mildred fights tooth and nail against being ejected from her farm and grounded in an old people’s home. Granted, she is old and she might forget where she put her glasses, but she has the willpower made of steel. Just like my Mother-in-law.
My Mother-in-law, dear old Audrey, has spent the ninety-four self-contained years of her life in her house, fending for herself, combating and defeating many a carer and community nurse who tried to tell her what was good for her. As if she didn’t know! She lived through the War and they did not, thank you very much!
Right up to this Christmas, she knew how to outsmart her long suffering son, and my poor Husband, and made him do as she said even though, frankly, she hasn’t been making much sense for years. But yet another dramatic tumble down the stairs, yet another ambulance ride, yet another long hour in A&E, and a Christmas miracle at last occurred! Audrey threw in a towel and conceded to a relocation to a lovely residential home, subject to several non-negotiable conditions and qualifications (all of which have been met): gardens, views, countryside, birds, and no more damned hospitals!
That’s the spirit! The spirit of Christmas! A miracle we never thought would take place (such is the nature of miracles, after all). So now we can visit because she is just round the corner and Husband can sleep soundly through the night. And so can I. Merry Christmas indeed!
And what of Mildred? Is she going to come to her senses?
On Saturday night, I feasted on music, gorging on the angelic singing of Malmesbury Community Choir, and delighting in the heavenly voices of the Westonbirt Girls’ School Chamber Choir. It was quite a treat and it conjured up Christmas on a count of four!
I tried to join in with some of the singing, alas my sheepish bleating failed to rise to the occasion. God and all His Saints must have been cringing up in Heaven at my tragic rendition of O Come All ye Faithful.
The beautiful Malmesbury Abbey was packed and bursting at the seams, so we had to find a place to sit beside King Athelstan’s tomb, on – as it happened – a very cushy little sofa, left there for the sole purpose of accommodating late arrivals from the far end of the county. We also had an unorthodox view of the goings-on. We were looking at the conductors, observed their animated faces and even more animated bodies.
Watching a conductor in action is something else! The male conductor’s hands were in constant motion as if he was kneading dough: squeezing and stretching it, massaging it with his fingers, pulling, flicking and leaving it to rise. The lady conductor was like a weaver: picking thin strands of wool and dragging them through the air, then feeding them into the body of the melodic fabric, extracting loose ends on the other side, tying them into small knots and snipping the frayed bits at the end. It was all like some mysterious sign language that only the singers could understand, and respond to with their song.
And then at the end, the conductor put his finger to his lips. Motionless silence.
I sang carols all the way home, just like the fifth little Piggie, to my poor husband’s utter dismay. All stars ran away from the firmament, leaving only one crestfallen Moon and one disoriented Star.