If We Were Having Coffee…

If we were having coffee I would tell you all about my new jumper. I’ve never owned a Christmas jumper before and to be honest I’ve never really had the desire to buy one. But work has a Christmas jumper day and hey ho I found myself in the Next knitwear section perusing all the holiday themed woolly garments thinking about how I really wanted the sheep one but apparently that wasn’t Christmassy enough. So instead I go the one with a reindeer and snowflakes because that said Christmas without being utterly in your face about it. I have also not taken it off since I bought it because lo and behold! I have discovered that I love jumpers! It has opened up a whole new world of snugly and that sheep jumper is now on it’s way to me and tomorrow I will be the proud owner of two Christmas jumpers! It’s like wearing a dressing gown that’s socially acceptable to have on in public places like the supermarket. What’s not to love about that.

If we were having coffee I’d also tell you that I’m fine. Really, I am. I’m sad yes and every time I think about her I can feel the ache, but  I don’t feel like anything has been taken from me. I had more time with her than I probably should have in the grand scheme of things and I’m not going to poo-poo that with tears.

If we were having coffee I’d say that Nanowrimo went out the window but the novel is still moving forward. Granted, it’s at the pace of a wounded snail but progress is progress and my skull only slightly aches from bouncing off the wall repeatedly as I tell myself over and over ‘I can do this! Just keep writing!’

If we were having coffee I’d apologies for the mass of posts one week and my utter absence the next. Consistency has never been my strongest suit and recently my juggling skills have become a little haphazard. The balls tend to go out the window and around the garden before coming back to me. I’ll get it together eventually I hope, but for now I’m going to cut myself some slack and focus on one task at a time. Let’s see how far I can get with that before diving back into everything.

If we were having coffee I’d thank you for listening. Sometimes I just need someone to ramble at.

me in a jumper

Getting Into The Spirit

I’m getting into the spirit of Christmas a little earlier than normal this year. I think all this talk of Christmas commercials on the radio has done something to put me in the festive mood, but all in all I’m more ‘up for’ Christmas than I have been for a while.

Don’t get me wrong, I love this time of year. My birthday is on the twenty-first of December so the month is something of a double whammy when it comes to celebration, but being at university and trekking between home and Bath somehow drains the excitement from me a little I find.

Hence Terrance!

Christmas Tree

Named by one of my housemates Terrance will like meet an unfortunate fate before the start of 2015, but I’m going to do my best to keep him alive. House plants have never been a strength of mine, or my mother’s for that matter. An issue that the aforementioned housemate finds hilarious since I come from a farming background.

But! Terrance does represent my attempt at embracing the jolliness of the up and coming season. Who knows, maybe a miracle will take place this Christmas and I’ll suddenly understand how people manage to keep plants alive indoors.

Writing for Christmas

In the two years previous to this Christmas I found myself writing poetry for Newport Girls’ High School Christmas Carol Service.

The reason was that my English teacher knew that I could write, and she wanted poems for the service. So I was cornered in the corridor and asked very nicely if I could write something. These are situations where I find my mouth saying the word yes before my brain can really think out the implications of taking on the task at hand.

Anyhow. The second year I was asked again, and my last acceptance made sure that there was no way out. I had written the previous year, and written something rather good, so why not repeat the feat?

I will tell you why not; Christmas poetry is a pain in the derriere.

I have a personal phobia of be over clichéd, unless I’m being ironic, but that is something completely different. My original point is that Christmas poetry is difficult to write without being repetitive, or clichéd, or saying something that is so cringe worthily cheesy that it would make me wince to write it.

So for the second year I wrote ‘Home for Christmas’. This year I’m writing a short story though it is not quite complete yet. When it is finished I’m debating self-publishing, and putting copies up for sale on the blog, only a few mind you.

Anyway, I can think on that when the story is complete. For now, here is last year’s poem.

 

Home For Christmas

December’s sleet and sludge to stain rare snow grey

And blank the windscreen dark as tight stretched nights.

These howling winds batter at my moving tin box,

Creeping slowly home down ice clad roads –

 

Here lies Cold’s treacherous claws,

Here we shall mourn safe passage.

 

Yet orange squares still yawn cheerful.

Fixed closed,

Shut to the winter’s eve outside.

 

Behind them is laid the table

Silver glints, laughter waits,

All beneath warmest light. 

 

Cold tries to sneak in with me,

To curl tendrils through the threshold,

But I snap the door shut too quick

And it is left to whine around the house.

 

I shed the layers, coat and scarf,

Set them by upon a hallway peg

And blow on gloveless fingertips,

To melt the frozen blue from them.

 

I shall sink into the mundane chatter

That only comes with Christmas

And the familiar kitchen din and clatter

Of best plates placed upon best table cloth,

Servings of food too great to finish

And bangs of crackers with rattling toys.

 

Among this old hands encase my own.

They pull me into loving arms

That age but can never truly change.

Always is given the same embrace

No matter the time passed since the last.

 

Here are paths which divide, twist and bend,

To be pulled together by half forgotten strings,

Awoken in pine sap scented rooms

Where crumpled papers crinkles in flames

And the fire dances in its flickering heat.

 

Later, chatter fades to sleepy murmurs

Of Grandfathers dozing upon armchairs,

Conversations switch from past to future

Or same time next year?

Perhaps a change of scene?

Will Aunty Flo still bring the mulled wine?

And as for the rest,

Well we shall wait and see

What the year will have to hold

Before plans are set in concrete.