Monthly Archives: December 2009

So then. Another year, another decade.  It’s tempting to drop into review mode, sip a couple of glasses of the lovely bottle of vintage port I bought myself for Christmas but have yet to open, and attempt to write something insightful to celebrate the passage of time.  Tempting, but not really close to the true banana.

I survived.  Most of the people I love survived.  That’s enough for me.

If there’s anything I’d like to burn in the ten-year bonfire of vanities some folks speak of it is my own sloth and laziness.  I’m the laziest man I know and I fear that even my laziness is not as thorough and honest as it might be.

I’m a drifter.  Always have been, always will be.  I don’t honestly care even if I do sometimes feel that I ought.

To hell with it.  I’ll keep on being lazy, drifting along without a care in the world.  It suits me, it does.

I wish us all a Happy New Year, with few aches, fewer pains, and a lot more laughs than we’ve seen in the past ten years.  Here’s to the next one.

“It’s still not snowing,” I said, standing at my window looking out at a wet, windy Welsh valley, my hands stuck deep in my pockets for comfort and stability.

“Told you.”

“Told me what?”

“I told you it wouldn’t.”

“Well, yes, but that doesn’t make you right.”

“Why, what does it make me?”

“Irritating.”

“In what way irritating?”

“Oh, I give up.  Is it espresso time yet?”

Soon enough, after the usual alchemy with the grinder and the pusher-downer and the squish-whish of the coffee machine the deep rich smell of really good coffee filled the kitchen and wafted into my study where I was still gazing out of the window.

I walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table, all the better to savour the aroma and to address my cup of coffee properly when it arrived in front of me.

“Ah!” I said. “I must be awake because I’m smelling the cawfee.”

And then the man from City Link came along with our new telly.  Didn’t stop me from addressing my coffee with full appreciation and then supping it with my usual “Cracking coffee, Gromitt!”

Which fell on flat ears because he was already unpacking the box and pulling the shiny black thing out, muttering about SCART leads and HDMIs and such.

Pretty soon the old telly was consigned to a corner of the second bedroom where it will sit pending a trip to the recycling bay at the town dump and the new one was sitting all resplendent on the Tapley unit, where it will live in solitary splendour until it’s fixed to the wall on a new bracket thingummy, with more Tapley and shelves above it.

I received a long lecture on all the wonderful capabilities of the new device, smiling bravely until my brains started to melt and my eyes glazed over.

“So, what do you think?” he asked.

“It’s a lovely picture.”

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It's a lovely picture

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We scurried from the supermarket to the car, trolley laden with provisions, and I huddled as close as I could to the raised hatch to keep out of the freezing rain and wind.

“Get in the car and start the engine,” Graham said.  “It’s silly for both of us to get frozen and I’ll appreciate the heat when I get in.”

A couple of minutes later I said “Home, James?” to the quivering heap of shivers that’d just sat in the seat next to me.

“Can’t wait.”

And then, when we got home without event, we found a card waiting for us to say that City Line had failed to deliver our brand new TV not ten minutes before.

Not to worry.  They promise to try another delivery tomorrow.

So then we had lunch, I looked out of the window at the horrid wet weather, and then took myself off for a nap.  When I woke there was still just a little light in the sky.

“Oh,” I said.  “Oh.  It hasn’t snowed yet, then?”

They’re trying to frighten us out of our nice cozy houses and into the bleak mid-winter to buy up anything we can find. “Wales to get heavy snow storm!”  “Over a foot of snow to fall on Welsh hills!” That’s what the forecasters are saying, anyway.

And so on.

“Do you think we ought to go stock up?” Graham asked.

I contemplated our bulging fridge, freezer and cupboards.  “What on earth for?”

“Because it’s going to snow?”

“Oh, I think we’ve enough to see us through.”

“Well, alright, then.  So long as you’re sure.”

“Tell you what.  If you still have the urge tomorrow morning we’ll pop out for milk and potatoes. If it’s not snowing.”

“OK.  It’s a deal.”

“Could you fancy a brandy and Canada Dry?” I asked.

“No thanks.  You go ahead, though.”

So I opened the Christmas bottle, carefully peeling the Courvoisier foil aside, poured myself a dollop, and drowned it with Canada Dry, reckoning that it diluted the brandy/cognac to a safe level for a well deserving elder poet.

Well, it is only once a year.

“Ye gods and little fishes,” Graham exclaimed, shamelessly stealing one of my favourite epithets.  “How much brandy did you put in that glass?”

“About this much,” I said, pouring myself a second glass.  What’s that, a double, or a triple, possibly?”

“More like a quadruple.”

“Oh well. Hic. I’m worth it.”