Let the holidays begin ...

We spent the actual Christmas with Alex's folks and it was a quiet one with all the family present. Alex's grandmother did not make it to the table, however. She is 91 and has had a few set backs since the night of the election count last May when she fell down the stairs and escaped largely unhurt but clearly shaken. Since then, she has endured a minor stroke which has frozen her left arm. Then, another fall resulted in a fracture in her right arm. But she is still managing to smile and here's hoping that she is not in too much discomfort as she sleeps in her chair each night.
Before leaving the Piccadilly Line for the trip back to the Village it was amazing to see on the BBC weather, that it was 18 below in the Village over several nights - colder than Moscow in fact. We loaded up the car on Monday morning promising to call in on Pobol Y Cwm on our way back to the Piccadilly Line and headed for the ferry at Pembroke.

As I was walking Blue around the port before the crossing I got a call from BF in Florida. I stood in the gale force wind and torrential rain while I listened. She and husband had escaped in a three hour window of snow ploughed runway from Dublin airport a few days earlier and were reunited with their three daughters - one from NZ, another from Vancouver and the baby from Germany. They had been for a swim on Christmas day and were heading down to the Key West on the morrow. I heard all this as trickles of water ran down the back of my neck and I eyed the hulk of a ferry through my rain splattered specs. It's bound to be a rough crossing I was thinking and I was right.
In County Wexford, near the town of New Ross we checked in to a pet friendly hotel. Dogs are allowed in the room but not in the bar. So Alex and Blue stayed in the room while I adjourned to the bar with the Irish Independent where I enjoyed a lip smackingly good pint of Guinness and ordered some food for us.
The next morning, a little more than four hours after breakfast, we pulled up at the house in the Village. I was unpacking upstairs when the doorbell rang. It was Jeremy and Bojangles. They have sold their house and will be back in England before the end of January. Hurrah. I dare say Hilary will be over the moon. Bless.
We are happy to be here, far from the Piccadilly Line. There's food in the fridge, wine in the cellar, books on the shelf, broadband to surf, DVDs to enjoy, a TV in the corner, fuel for the fire and friends nearby. The winter break has well and truly begun.

Oat Bran and the Weather

Marge and I got drunk one night, years ago, with the Proclaimers as we walked 500 miles around the houses in the bar of a hotel on the banks of the Foyle. The great thing about Marge is that she had no idea who they were or anything about their music. But she loved the talk of politics and the unions and when Marge is in full flow it's hard to get a word in edgeways. I met my dear friend, Marge, last night in Fitzrovia. In the pub, to be precise, where Dylan Thomas and George Orwell enjoyed a pint in days of yore. Not sure how they would have enjoyed last night, packed as it was with well heeled, well wrapped up 20 and 30 somethings. Anyway, enough of them. Marge was looking well, so well in fact, that I passed her by without recognising her. She has lost one and a half stone since October. Oat bran is the answer and weight loss is not its only benefit; apparently. It's good for reducing both cholesterol and fluid retention So I am now trying to source this miracle food . . . but why oh why do the main supermarkets not stock it? I am taking it as a sign not to rush into these things and hold off on diets and eating plans until the New Year.

Marge is also an expert on the weather she reminded me, as she relished the organic wheat beer in the tavern. Marge explained in great detail, what the source of this cold weather is. It’s to do with the airplanes, you see. In the summer. And something to do with the displacement of the Gulf Stream. I am not sure if this is linked with the Volcanic Ash or not.

I have noticed with Marge that her knowledge expands in direct relation to the number of pints consumed. I have also noticed that my ability to digest knowledge reduces in direct proportion to the number of pints consumed... but if George and Dylan had been around last night they would have hung on to her every word as the Proclaimers once did, back home in Derry.

Corrie at 50

The woman on the radio was well excited. Corrie is unmissable this week, she declared breathlessly. So with that in mind I suggested to Alex last night that she interrupt her viewing of Come Dine With Me and switch over to real TV. So we watched. Tyrone bought a bottle of whiskey in the local shop from the blubbery Asian who was fooling around with the dippy one from Dinnerladies. Sally was worried about Tyrone and suggested she would pop around. Kevin’s face clinched stiffly and said no. Meanwhile Sally served dinner to her pretentious elder daughter (apples fall from trees) and her younger lesbian daughter who now seems to be living at home with her lover – while both of them are still at school. Rita meanwhile, at 70+, weaved home tipsy from her vodka and tonic in the pub – good on you, Rita, while the bride to be sat glum at the bar amid the raucous singing at her hen night in the Rovers. Ken, looked dashing in his open necked shirt at the stag night in the new night club and kept glancing anxiously at Nick while smiling nervously at his son Peter, the groom and former bigamist.

An ex-con railed around the street looking for a lost little blond boy and called her ex-con husband to help in the search. Meanwhile Molly, who moved into the street some time ago from Emmerdale, delivered Tyrone the killer blow that he was not baby Jack’s father. Oh my God. In one of the houses on the street, Fiz’s slimy husband ended up killing the deluded Glenn Close like character. Then there was chaos. I think there was an explosion in the nightclub and the pub emptied of women who ran running towards the club screaming about their men folk. It all happened so fast. The posse from the pub was led by dearest Deirdre with her big glasses and orange face. “Oh my god, Ken, do something,” she rasped in her smoky baritone voice. Just as Ken was about to save the day a passing train collapsed from the bridge, like they do. More screams and chaos. The camera, which was in the right place at the right time, caught the horror of the scene in Ken’s face. What on earth would Uncle Albert make of all of this he was probably thinking.

The title to the show read four funerals and a wedding. The woman on the radio was so right. Another typical night on the street it was not. I wonder will Google do a special on the day Corrie reaches 50.