Cards and Poems and a Christmas Goose

My friend Sarah has, for the last umpty gazzillion years, made her own Christmas cards. Inside each card is an epic poem based on Santa coping with that year's major news story.

I phoned Sarah the other day, on a matter unrelated, and during the conversation we got around to talking about Christmas cards, because once again Andy and I are doing a home-made effort, this time with a bee theme. We have two choices so far - 'Ding Dong Merrily on Hive' and ''Twas the Night, Bee, For Christmas' which, when Andy suggested it I had trouble grasping the concept thereof because I kept trying to put too many 'bees' into the equation and was totally misplacing my commas.

'That's a good idea,' I said. 'Like the Night Beefore Christmas?'
'No,' said Andy. 'Like you are telling the bee a story...'
'About the night before Christmas,' I said.
'No, about the night FOR Christmas, because you have already accounted for the mention of the bee as separate entity and what you are trying to do now is included the bee into the fore, which isn't what I had in mind,' said Andy.
'Ah,' I said. 'So not 'The Night Bee Before Christmas, then?'
'No,' said Andy, and I think we both understood what was going on somehow, someway.

So anyway, Sarah said she was having trouble thinking of a major news item to write her Santa Slanda (as her poems are called) about this year.
'Nothing seems to have happened,' she said. She was immediately discounting the General Election, and I don't blame her because it was a bit of a non-event really.

'What about the Icelandic volcanic eruption?' I suggested.
'Was that this year?' said Sarah.
'Yes it was,' I said. 'And I know this because we were coming back from North Devon in April when it happened and because all the airports were shut down, we whizzed through the M25 because there was hardly any traffic around Gatwick and/or Heathrow which ever one it is, I can never remember. It was GREAT!'
'Are you SURE it was this year?' said Sarah again. She sounded awfully suspicious, although why she thought I might be trying to pull some pseudo-volcano eruption scam on her I don't know.
'Yes,' I said, because I was. 'And a volcanic eruption would definitely affect Santa on his travels, wouldn't it? Or not, as the case may be.'
'Indeed,' said Sarah. 'I was convinced it was last year, though.'
'Nope,' I said. 'This year. Definitely.'

So I think we got that settled. We blamed the forgetfulness on our impending 45th birthdays and the rattle of many a loose marble. Actually, Sarah tried to blame drugs but I wouldn't have it.

So I am now thinking I can write a poem to put in our Christmas card this year, based on 'The Night Before Christmas.' It might not happen of course, because the older I have become, the more Christmas tends to creep up on me. I think it's because the shops start the whole festive malarkey way too soon, so I block it from my mind, then forget to reactivate my interest and before I know it, it's ten days to go and all I've managed to do is order the goose.

'Are we having goose this year?' asked Andy and Heather the other day, when the subject of goose arose.
'Yes,'I said. 'Of course. What else would one have at the Manor at Yuletide?'
'Will you be eating it?' they asked.
'No,' I said. 'For I am vegetarian and as far as my poor meat-deprived brain can remember, a goose has a face.'
'What will you have, then?' they said.
'Something mushroomy/vegetably wrapped in pastry and covered in cheese I expect,' I said, as this seems to be the common festive fare for vegetarians, both in restaurants and December issues of foody magazines.

So that was all sorted, too.

Gonzo's New Frock

Well, I've done it. I've actually turned Andy's fabulous Christmas pictures, featuring chickens in famous carols, into Christmas cards. It wasn't so much a creative process, more the adding of Christmas tat in the form of some red and silver sparkly ribbon, some silver snow flakes and a silver star. But it was all very traumatic.

I spent what seemed like hours in a craft shop, mooching around trying to be decisive about how the cards were going to look. It was a miracle I finally decided on a colour theme and stuck to it, despite my predeliction for all things rainbow-like. Up and down the aisles I paced. My biggest hurdle was that there was too much choice. Also, I'd been up in the loft that morning to retrieve the Christmas decorations and decided that Gonzo, our Christmas tree fairy, needed a new frock as the one he's currently wearing is four years old now and looking rather faded and tatty. So I needed to get fabric for that, too.

Gonzo, as you may know if you are an ardent Muppet fan, is blue. Therefore, dressing him in pink is out of the question. I had already decided that I'd stick to white and silver, which always looks nice with blue. But I'd also decided to divest Gonzo of his current trousers and knitted tank top which he was currently wearing 'neath his fairy outfit. They were causing some unsightly bulges, I thought. We were aiming for a more sleek look this year.

Of course, all fairy frocks have skirts made from netting so they stick out all perky, like a tutu. All I wanted was a scrap of white netting. Every colour under the sun was presented to me, but not white. Could I get away with a pale lilac, I thought? Would it make him look 'too cold?' Am I really wasting some of my life standing in a shop agonising over how to make a new dress for a Muppet who sits on top of our Christmas tree every year?

Eventually, after much burrowing in the fabric section where I was glared at by a shop assistant for ruffling her display, I discovered some white tu-tu netting. Phew! Crisis averted. I teamed the netting with some white felt with a silver star motif, and some white maribou feather trim.

Back home, I tried to wrestle Gonzo from his tank top, which was very reluctant to be pulled over his nose. It was, as they say in fashion terms, a snug fit. The trousers proved to be more problematic, as they were actually sewn into Gonzo around his tummy area, so I had to manage a very tricky operation whereby I cut away the tiny stitches holding the trousers on and his tummy together at the same time as resewing his tummy together again to stop all the beans bursting from his innards. I never realised beans were the staple diet of a Muppet, but I guess it explains Gonzo's ability to propel himself across vast spaces, often without the use of a cannon.

Once Gonzo was nude, save for his shoes which weren't coming off for anyone, I set about making his new frock. I was a little surprised to discover that under his trousers, he was going commando, so I made a long underskirt to cover his nether regions. I toyed with making Muppet pants, but sometimes there ARE more important things to do with one's time.

Skirt completed, I tried various arrangements of maribou feather around his top half, ably assisted by Pandora who thinks playing with a giant furry worm is great larks. I settled on a Playtex bra 'Cross Your Heart' effect, with trailing train. Very nice.

And now all I need to do is make him a new set of wings, wand and halo and he is fit to go.

The cards are ready to be posted. I just hope they don't disintegrate in the post.

Christmas trees and beer barrels

Yesterday, Andy and I got things done. Oh yes, indeedy, we had a most productive morning. Andy dropped me at Sainsbugs to get the weekly shopping whilst he went in search of a pressure barrel for his Christmas beer venture. The Christmas beer is fermenting nicely, with a big frothy head of something or other developing atop it. It is also making the downstairs bathroom smell like a brewery, but I am assured this will be a temporary measure. I rather think that coming from a long line of hop-growers and publicans as I do, with a great-great-great Grandfather who invented Pimms, that I should be more amenable to the brewing and alcohol industry but I'm not. It all smells yuk to me and tastes even more yuk. I am clearly the token tee-totaller in the family. Well, someone had to be.

Still, Andy located his barrel. There is a sticker on the front which reads thus:'During secondary fermentation in the barrel, production of CO2 is unpredictable. This product must not be stored where damage to furnishing or property could occur. Do not store in airing cupboards, lofts, next to radiators, in direct heat or anywhere that extremes of temperatures are likely. Check the tap is screwed tight into the barrel before filling. HAPPY DRINKING!'

I'm still not liking the sound of this pressure barrel malarkey. Especially the 'unpredictable' bit.

'The trouble is,' said Andy, 'that the instructions pretty much preclude most of the storage locations in both the house and the garden.'
'Indeed,' I said. 'It'd best stay in the bath then.'
'And we can always repaint the bathroom should any explosions occur,' said Andy.
'We can,' I said.

Back home, we dropped off the shopping and the barrel, then went straight back out to buy a Christmas tree. We tried somewhere new this year for our Christmas tree hunt, which involved travelling down a country lane which got progressively narrower and wetter until we were driving through what amounted to a narrow stream of watery mud and meeting many four-wheel drive monsters coming the other way.

But the place we found had a gazillion trees from which to choose, along with a nice little gift shop where I found a couple of cute Christmas plates and a proper tapered advent candle so I don't have to keep hacking bits off my current pillar advent candle every evening so the edges can keep up with the wick which is fast disappearing down the centre of the wax.

We faffed around choosing a tree until my arms started to react to the tree sap and go itchy and blotchy. Then we took the tree home, put it in the greenhouse to keep dry, and then it was back out to visit our friend, Jane, who had a chest of drawers to donate to Chris and Leane. We collected the furniture,which just about went in the back of the car, took it over to Chris and Leane's, dropped it off and came home.

And it was barely lunch-time! What dynamism!

Today, we have attempted to make Christmas cards. I have failed abysmally to come up with an appropriate chicken poem for the inside (partly because hens go 'cluck' which can lead to all sorts of rhyming inappropriateness), and Andy has been swearing at his printer a lot which is failing to play ball with his instructions and keeps turning his beautiful drawings into weird modern art daubs which no doubt would go down a bomb at the Tate Modern, but would flummox the receivers of our Christmas greetings.

But we shall strive on, because that's what we do at the Manor. We never give up. Sometimes we should, but we don't. We're stubborn like that.

All Behind Like a Cow's Tail

Although I feel I have been churning out much content for 'Poulet Nous' and NaNoWrimo, it's all been in my mind and I haven't actually committed much of it to actual written blog. In fact, this weekend has been so busy I found myself at least 4,000 words behind schedule this morning. However, I've spent the last two and a half hours writing Chapters 7 and 8, so may have caught up with myself a bit by now.

The thing is, I got distracted with Christmas this weekend, which, in my defence, is late for me, who usually has it all sussed by the end of October and is shouting 'Bring it on, Santa.' But then I realised yesterday that I haven't even got my Advent Candle yet, and Advent starts in barely three week's time. So then I got distracted into making Christmas lists - things to do like ordering the goose and making the cards - and things to buy, like almost everything bar my Mum's pressie which I got back in September and is currently gathering dust in the bottom of my wardrobe.

And then 'The Wizard of Oz' was on telly yesterday afternoon, which is one of my favourite films from childhood. Followed by 'The Aristocats', so no writing got done after lunch, other than a few Sudokus and Crosswords during the commercial breaks. All this time, Andy was drawing the designs for our Christmas cards and scanning them onto computer for the adding of colour and the printing onto shiny photographic paper thereof. The designs are very good and I am thrilled with them all, especially the 'God Nest Ye Merry, Gentle Hens, ' and 'Good Queen Henselas,' which I think might be the two final selections to actually send to people. So sometime in the next week or two, I need to finish the final cards, with Andy's drawings as the central feature, and some Christmas tat by me in the form of ribbons and stars and stuff around the edges.

And talking of hens (now there's a rare thing in this blog!), all three girls have survived the pops and bangs of Bonfire Night, with little more than a couple of days of wrinkly eggs to show the effect of them being startled by the experience. Poor things. A good case for campaigning for silent fireworks, I think.

Back to writing 'Poulet Nous,' now. I hope you are enjoying the read so far, those who are coming along for the ride with me. I am enjoying writing it, so might just have a copy printed at the end of the whole malarkey for my own entertainment and to remind myself that I have made someone laugh with my writing, even if that someone was only me!

The Artist At Work

Andy was mooching yesterday. In between mooching, he was disappearing to his study to play ever-so-important- and-exciting action adventure games on his PC. Although I don't understand this particular aspect of the male psyche,I don't object to it either; Andy works extremely hard and when he's on holiday I think he has the right to do as he darn well pleases.

Anyway, he appeared half-way through the afternoon and created a massive slump 'n' sigh combination move onto the sofa, just as I had succumbed to some tatty day-time TV to do the ironing to.

'We should start designing our Christmas cards,' I said. 'It's only seven weeks until Christmas and we'll probably need to think about posting them next week if these postal strikes continue.'
'Okay,' said Andy. 'What did you have in mind for the designs?'
'I think they should have a chicken theme,' I said, because, as you may have gathered, we are very keen on chickens.
'So do I,' said Andy.

So I got a pad of plain white paper and a very new, very sharp pencil, put on the DVD of 'A Muppet Christmas Carol' to get us in the festive mood and we started bouncing some ideas through the air.

I always find that if I start these projects, at some point in the proceedings Andy will be appalled at my incompetent drawing skills and remove the pencil and paper from me and continue the job himself. Again, I don't mind this because although I can see very clearly in my mind what I want to appear on the paper before me, somehow, between the brain and pencil, the skill of a huge gorilla trying to handle a tiny purple wax crayon seems to take over.

We decided to design a set of cards, just in case WHSmiths sees them and wants to sell an assorted boxed set.(Be prepared for all eventualities, that's what I say.) The designs were to be based on Christmas carols, with a cunning chicken twist. So, after much searching through our vast collection of Christmas song CDs, and discarding the more tenuous ideas, we came up with these four on which to base the pictures - 'Good Queen Henseslas Looked Out...On the Feast of Steve's Hen,' 'O Little Town of Bethle-hen...How Still We See Thee Lay,''God Rest Ye Merry, Gentle Hen...Let Nothing You Mis-lay,' and 'In the Beak Mid-Winter...Long Time Egg-O.'

(And if you think these titles are a bit dodgy, you should see the one's we discarded!)

My attempt at the drawing of a hen looked like a very fat banana with a rubber glove attached. Andy took over almost immediately, gentle removing the pencil from my gorilla-like grip. And the thing with Andy and his artistic skills is that he doesn't like to blow his own trumpet and he should because he is a very talented artist. In fact, in the words of Blackadder, 'You could have at least told us you had a trumpet.'
'You do the main drawings,' I said. 'And I'll take charge of sticking Christmas tat around the edges. And writing the Christmas poem inside.'

And so the deal was done. Christmas card production at Much Malarkey Manor is well underway. And I can't wait to get out my glitter and glue!!

Arty Crafty

Last year I fully intended to make our Christmas cards. I was in 'artisan' mode, having just given up teaching, and being, by that time, in full swing of writing full time. I was at a creative peak. I purchased blank cards and all sorts of accessories with which to embellish said cards with some kind of suitable Christmassy effect. I even got to the point of sitting at the table in my writing room, with all the card making accoutrements spread before me, ready to begin production.

And then I got stuck.

The possibility of choice was over-whelming. What form should our Christmas cards take? What picture, or symbolic representation of the festive season would best convey Andy and I as a happy Christmas couple? What colour theme should I use? Should I do a variety of designs to suit the variety of family and friends we have? Should I do a poem for the inside?

Well, of course, they didn't get made, did they? The sheer enormity of the task caused me to chicken out. My friend, Sarah, has been making her own cards for years and years. They have style, they have a brand - Santa Slanda -they contain a long and very funny poem centered on the main news topic of the year and one of the highlights of my Christmas is waiting for Sarah's card 'n' poem combo to arrive. I have collected each and every one of them.

And I have made cards before, so it's not a wholly unusual activity for me. In fact, Andy and I designed and made our wedding invitations. We selected a colour theme - pinks, lilacs, purples and burgundy - we created a design, we wrote and printed the invitation details to stick inside, we added ribbons and sparkle, we set up a production line on the dining room table, we manufactured 50 invitations without arguing and calling off the wedding. We even managed a set of 100 place name cards for the tables to match. Mission accomplished.

So what is it about Christmas? What is it about creating a Christmas card that is causing me such angst? I'll tell you what it is, because the reason woke me up at 4.30 this morning. It's because every year we are bombarded with magazines, TV programmes and advertising that promises us 'The Best Christmas EVER!!!!!!!'. And being a perfectionist, I am sucked into this ideal and of course, the best way to avoid failure on the perfection front is to not try in the first place. I am, in some weird subliminal way, attempting to magic up the ultimate perfect best-ever Christmas card in the history of since when Christmas began.

And it's all subjective, isn't it? What I like and deem to be perfection, may be some other person's vision of tat and tackiness. (I know, seems unlikely doesn't it, given my obvious impeccable taste, but one has to consider these possibilities, doesn't one, Jerry?). I mean, Andy and I had a Muppet themed wedding. Okay, so we didn't go as far as dressing up as Kermit and Miss Piggy, but the thought was there, believe me, and there but for Moss Bros being thin on the green tuxedo front go we. We named the tables after Muppets, we had Muppets sitting on the tables, we walked down the aisle as husband and wife to Muppet songs. But other than that, it was very tasteful.

So why don't I do Muppet Christmas cards? Because they would be tacky, that's why. Don't ask me how I arrive at this conclusion; I just know in my Christmassy heart that it would be wrong. (Although our tree top decoration is Gonzo dressed as a Christmas fairy, wand and all.)

And now three chickens have arrived at the back door dressed as can-can dances.
'Can I help?' I say.
'We've come for the Christmas card photoshoot,' says Mrs Miggins, adjusting her frilly knickers as they are a bit tight and giving her, what I believe is called in common parlance, a wedgy.
'Yes,' says Mrs Pumphrey, a vision in red and black frills, hiding coyly behind an elaborate fan.
'Photoshoot?' I say, glancing down at the three pairs of patent leather ankle boots that are tapping in excited anticipation.

'Yes,' says Mrs Slocombe. 'We're the two turtle doves and the partridge in a pear tree.'

Oh good grief!

Consternation in the hen house

'Mrs Bennett! Mrs Bennett!' calls Mrs Miggins. She finds her friend behind what remains of the old shed, a dead spider hanging from the corner of her beak. Mrs Bennett looks up guilty. She knows how cross Mrs Miggins gets when she finds her binge eating. Mrs Miggins is cross. 'How many have you had this time?' she asks. 'Mmmftty seven,' Mrs Bennett replies, hurriedly shovelling down the last legs of this spider in case Mrs Miggins grabs it from her and stamps it into the ground. 'You know you shouldn't, don't you?' Mrs Miggins reprimands. 'Andy and Denise provide us with a balanced diet to keep us healthy. And there's free ranging and free bingeing. It's not attractive, dear.'

Mrs Bennett hangs her head but secretly she is enjoying the feeling of the spider descending to her crop and the fact she told Mrs Miggins she had eaten mmmftty seven when she had really had mmmftty nine.

'What did you want?' she says, cunningly changing the subject. 'Well,' says Mrs Miggins, putting on her jodhpurs getting ready to climb on her high horse, 'I have heard a most disturbing conversation between Denise and Andy concerning our part in their Christmas celebrations this year.' 'Oh yes?' says Mrs Bennett, and a flash of sage and onion stuffing and a roast potato pass before her eyes, she didn't know why. 'Yes. Apparently they are going to take photos of us and use Paint to superimpose Santa hats and reindeer antlers on us for their Christmas cards. What do you think of that?'

'Well, I'm not sure about the paint. When we helped Andy do the new garden gate it took him ages to get the green off us. I liked the green myself but I'm not sure it was your colour. And you say rain, dear?' 'That's right,' said Mrs Miggins, a bit miffed because she thought green was her colour, 'reindeer.' 'I thought I felt a damp spot on my beak,' said Mrs Bennett. Mrs Miggins looks up to heaven for help in keeping her wings to herself. It wasn't so much that Mrs Bennett was a peabrain, but that she had a line in very bad, very old jokes that she was unaware she was using in every day conversation.

'Anyway, what are we going to do? Should we contact our agent, do you think?' says Mrs Miggins, desperately trying to steer the conversation back to sanity street. ' It is modelling after all. When we did that job for Chunky Chicken it paid for our cruise that year.'

Mrs Bennett spots another spider. 'Well,' she says, trying not to drool and give the game away,' I think it is important to protect the copyright at least. Our solicitor should be able to do that for us, shouldn't he?' 'Good idea,' says Mrs Miggins. 'I'll call him immediately. And leave that spider alone.'