I daresay the season of goodwill has arrived, though you would hardly know it from the state of affairs in our parish. The roads, for instance, are now so deep in mud that a man may lose a boot simply attempting to cross from the smithy to the bakery. Yet every year the parish council – a body composed chiefly of gentlemen whose boots are mysteriously never muddied – assures us that repairs are imminent. I believe these repairs are scheduled to occur around the same time as the Second Coming.
As for the post, it remains wonderfully reliable: provided you do not actually require your letters to reach you. Only this morning, a parcel addressed to my neighbour Mrs Docket was discovered wedged in a hedge half a mile from her door, the string gnawed through by either a rat or, more likely, a disgruntled postman. Mrs Docket insists she will write to the Postmaster General. I wish her every joy of that.
The perils of intemperance
Our local traders seem possessed by a festive madness, convinced that every household requires a mechanical nutcracker or a self-stirring gravy ladle. I am certain these contraptions will soon gather dust beside last year’s “improved” candle-holders which had the admirable quality of setting tablecloths alight.
Meanwhile, the young insist on gathering in the square for what they call “seasonal merriment” – a pastime involving loud music, questionable dancing and the consumption of drinks so sweet they might reasonably attract wasps in January. Naturally, they complain bitterly when anyone suggests their revelry might be heard half a county away. I recall when a simple wassail song was considered lively enough, and no one required a portable brass band to accompany them.
And now the rector has declared that this year’s Christmas sermon will address “the perils of intemperance, vanity and modern excess”. A brave choice, given half the congregation derives its chief joy from precisely those pursuits. Still, I applaud his optimism; I believe it is the only cheerful thing I have witnessed in weeks.
A merry Christmas
I do not wish to seem unseasonal. Christmas, after all, is a time for hope, reflection and the annual rediscovery that one’s relations are altogether more trying in person than on paper. I shall dutifully partake of the goose, endure the pudding, and attempt to look grateful when presented with another knitted muffler of alarming hue.
But if, by the grace of all that is holy, the weather should refrain from raining sideways for an entire day, I might consider 1874 a triumph.
Until then, I remain,
Yours in wintery exasperation.
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