At 4.30 or so on Friday afternoon to a noise like nuts and bolts being shaken in a wooden box to the attacking rhythm of a pneumatic drill,
like hailstones
the screen failed. I tried to revive it and got a unctuous message about not being able to repair your screen automatically at this time ho hum… The computer man’s company, conceived for business ventures run from home, the elderly and first time users, Is open Monday through Friday so I wasn’t going to be able to do anything until Sunday night/Monday morning when I could phone for help.
Like a thunderstorm, all blown out by the following morning, thank you heaven, on we go. Self awarded self little red glass heart signifying sangfroid.
nearest I get to cool
I had looked at the Christmas box, also red, and it had looked at me, so I took a bus to the front of a local church where cards are sold every Christmas. It was chastening. Nothing I would buy and if I did, nothing I would send. I came out into a half closed main road, the smell of heating up fast food in booths, badly relayed rock, five foot teddy bears and mammoth pink bows on lampposts.
I met Ben the florist and told him I can’t do this. “Why do you think I’m here? Neither can Dad. Took one look and went home …” looking at me, adding wrily. “It’s only today, gone tomorrow.” I said “Thank God”…
I know several people who really dislike Christmas.
I am not one of them. But I hate the hijack into ruthless commerciality and even more pink. Got nothing against pink but Christmas colours are silver and gold, red and green, with a permitted sidebar into blue and white shading into silver if you must. And I don’t want to be “must ed” from November on, through an increasingly desperately extended “Christmas season”.
So Denning and I discussed cards.
I love Christmas cards, so does he. We send them – by the Post Office recommended dates if not earlier. We chose them carefully, with more affection than formality, a hello/how are you catchup once a year to a wide range of people – some you don’t want to think you forgot (Mark in the depths of rural Wales), some in remembrance of things past as well as present, some new – but we agreed, if they are not in the post by the end of the first week in December, who knows when they will get there? You hear stories of the card that arrived in April the following year, the ones that were dumped and it is an item – a Christmas present – cards, envelopes, stamps, the labour of writing and it is only worth it,
if it is worth it to you.
Since then, SR sent me a pack of black and white cards from a sketch by an artist I admire – Eric Ravilious. Hooray. That broke the card deadlock. Waterstones came up with something I warmed to in three designs out of four – so I grabbed those. Christmas cards are on the schedule.
In New York 62 years ago I was thrilled by the range and variety of every kind of card, especially the picture for the sake of the picture and selling you an envelope, write your own message cards, still am but the range is shrinking.
Think of the industry that could go to the wall – paper, card, original design or rights to the images, assembly, marketing. Not a cheap option. And then add the postage.
All my long life, people had to think about what they could and would spend at Christmas – and make choices – and that’s fine. You don’t think Mary wanted to ride that donkey all those miles to Bethlehem, do you? It was the best Joseph could do. And the ox moved over, to share the stall with the tired ass. Not a believer for many years, I love the Christmas story – it is one of hope – and you can’t tell it till you get there – that when you are down and finished, the phone rings or a note comes or a hand is extended, food is offered, warmth shared. The Kings come through the night with gifts
and the shepherds bring their lambs. A story for all of us – and we are all stories.
Annalog 