Christmas Cheer!

This is the time of year when weeks take on a different shape.  Since my childhood, this week has always been made up in this fashion: Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Saturday, another Sunday, 'Someday' and then Saturday again.  Someday?  Well, Boxing Day is like no other.  It's not a Sunday, because there are no church services (except for those really devoted people who celebrate the Feast of St. Stephen) and, legally speaking, if 26th December falls on a Sunday, it isn't Boxing Day anyway, because a Sunday can't be a Bank Holiday.  And it's not a Saturday either, because ... well, it just isn't.  Yet there is sport; for many years, it has been a definite full programme day for the world of football.  Even at the level that I watch, there were quite a number of matches to choose from today; although I decided to stay at home in the dry rather than venture out and get soaked.

"Chicken!" I hear you shout.  And you would be quite right - there was chicken for dinner today, after lashings of turkey yesterday. (I've lost count of the wonderful accompaniments that filled the remainder of the plate as I shared the festive meal at the home of a generous and welcoming family from our church, who made a last minute invitation that I just had to accept.)  And of course, the season wouldn't be complete without all the other special foods that only come out at this time of year, like the dates and candied fruits, the iced fruit cake decorated with sleds, santas and snowmen, and the tasty stollen (now easily obtainable from the nearest Lidl!)  Then there's the booze, of course, (more of that anon.) and the chocolate ... loads of it, on its own in all shapes and sizes, or coating biscuits or a variety of nuts and cremes; even some in square blue boxes imitating fruit!

But before all that, you'll no doubt be wondering about the Monday, Tuesday and 'Saturday' that came before the feast.  Monday began in routine fashion, with the regular delivery to Pinewood Studios, and then I went over to Thatcham to make a collection there for a customer in Luton.  After that came a sequence of three local jobs that filled up the day nicely, allowing me to join my friends in the tower for the final ringing practice of the year.

Tuesday reversed this pattern, with odd jobs first.  In fact, after a pre-booked collection of air-conditioning equipment in Welwyn Garden City for a house in Cambridge, it was so quiet that I thought maybe things had shut down already for the festival.  No so, however, for I was then sent to a farmyard workshop in a tiny village in rural Hertfordshire that I'd not heard of in my fifteen years as a resident. (Although I'm sure there are many more such places!)  On my way back, I took a detour to collect a package that was to be forwarded from our office to an address in Lancashire, and then a second detour to collect another job, from a customer in Hitchin.

I've often 'name-dropped' about the unique occasion quite early in my driving career (records aren't clear whether it was 2004 or 2006), when I found myself passing just inside the hallowed black door of no. 10 Downing Street, SW1; this particular job could have reached an even greater pinnacle of achievement.  The parcel I collected in Hitchin was for no less an address than Windsor Castle!  Although Her Majesty would not have been in residence, security was no less severe, and my instructions were clear.  I rang the number I'd been given, and the recipient met me on the roadside outside the gate, where I obtained the necessary signature under the gaze of the guards.  I wonder what action might have been taken had I not then promptly turned my van and driven off!

Once I'd returned, and agreed that I would be willing to do another job that evening, matters returned to normal ... or as normal as the day before Christmas Eve can be.  I loaded as many cases of drink as would cover the floor of the van (more than half its permissible payload in weight!) and set off for the fens.  As I entered the Red Lion in March, two customers were leaving.  One said to the other as they passed me, "Santa's early this year ... and he's not wearing red, either!"  The lady behind the bar saw my white beard and looked rather embarrassed.  "Seasonal joke," I said, putting her at ease before I determined where I should park in order to transfer some of my load to her cellar.  On then, to discharge the remainder of my consignment to the Three Tuns in Wisbech, where a willing customer offered to help, carrying some of the cases across the road to the rear entrance for me.

I was expecting work to be very quiet on Christmas Eve, but I usually offer to be available because it relieves the obligation on others who have families to think of, and often the work itself is not very demanding.  I had only one job, which I rather enjoyed, because it took me to the rural byways of southern Suffolk, delivering a case of wine to an isolated farmhouse in Stoke-by-Nayland.  I was reminded of a delivery I made some Christmas Eves ago, to a Victorian house in a terrace somewhere in London, about two streets from the Thames - I can't recall whether it was Chiswick or Wandsworth, or somewhere else in that general area.  What I do recall was that the occupants were the wife, and two children under ten, who were playing by the open fireside.  As I walked through their lounge a number of times to deliver several cases of wine to the kitchen, I thought what a charming picture they made, almost Dickensian, from the location, and yet not so, because of their dress and the toys ... and the TV in the corner.  I was very glad that this was my last job before Christmas.  It made my day, and in many ways made my festival complete!