Wait until next year

A group of children were singing carols as I got off the train tonight. Christmas on its way. 

Excluding the great railway terminals, train stations can by their very nature be transitory, impersonal, cold places, especially on a dark night. 

The singers transformed the platform, and as their voices carried they transformed the whole station. Their lovely singing was so moving because of the location. As corny as it sounds, it was a welcome home. 

On my walk home I saw that someone had strung baubles on one of the street’s trees. 

This seemed a far more understated decorative exercise than covering your home in lights. It felt far more civic too. 

There is sometimes something performative about the Christmas display outside a home. These things often get competitive too, a street full of light but lacking in real festivity. Who really wants to live opposite a nodding reindeer?

Yet decorating something shared by the whole street feels more in keeping with the occasion. It feels a tiny bit anarchic too. I look forward to tinsel on the street lamps, holly around the street signs. 

This is the best time of year to go to our local farmers market. 

In the summer it can feel a little like an affectation – a place to go to, so you can tell people you go there. 

In the winter it feels less like a spectacle. Only the hardy brave the cold and damp to man the stalls and to browse them. It attracts the funny sort of people who enjoy a stroll in December more than one in August. The food keeps better too, no danger of it spoiling at these temperatures.

We buy bread, cheese, a huge pork pie, some beer. All the essentials. And all that is necessary for the perfect Sunday tea. 

We have a fushcia that is still flowering. It is uncanny yet comforting. There is a simple yet powerful joy in seeing it hold out against the cold. I think it is just in a sheltered spot that gets plenty of sun, but it is the sort of thing that can easily feel symbolic somehow.