Author: anneethompson

Letters to a Sister : 37

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This is a reply to my sister’s letter, which you can read at:
http://ruthdalyauthor.blogspot.ca/2016/01/star-wars-handbags-and-my-word-of-year.html

Dear Ruth,

Thanks for your letter. It’s funny but I was thinking much the same things this week. I don’t think I could choose one word for the year though, for me it would be two : Nothing Lasts.

The same conclusions as you really, it is something I realise more and more as I get older. Nothing lasts. This can be sad, when it refers to friendships, when people I love move or die, when a job I enjoy finishes or a stage of life (like having toddlers. I loved parenting tiny children.) It can be good too, when something’s awful, or we’re ill, or we look at the world and it just seems black and hopeless. Nothing lasts.

I had a terrible night on Wednesday, I just couldn’t sleep. I think I spent the whole night awake and worrying. Usually I’m an excellent sleeper – 10:30 to 7am, straight through with no wake ups. If I can’t sleep I put on a story in Chinese and it distracts me enough that I sleep almost instantly. (Husband gave me headphones for Christmas. I am thinking it might not be the same for him.) But Wednesday I started worrying and then couldn’t sleep. All night.

I had all kinds of different worries bubbling around my head. Church has had lots of people move away and we can’t find enough people to fill all the gaps and I’m worried I wont cope with everything I have agreed to do. My book is on the way to being published but I’m worried that no one will buy it, that it’s not good enough, that friends will laugh at me. I hate self-promotion, I just can’t do it, so the thought of having to ask people to buy my book is terrifying. I also had agreed to drive the boys back to uni, which is a long drive, longer than I have driven since brain surgery. Worried I would get too tired, worried about staying in a motel (very scary), worried I would get lost in big Northern cities. Worry, worry, worry, buzzing round my brain.

The next morning I was reading Psalm 8 (you remember I am studying the Psalms at the moment?) Anyway, it just made me cross! It begins by talking about God, his glory, how he put the stars in place with his hands, how even tiny children praise him, etc. “That’s nice,” I thought, “but it doesn’t exactly fill up the Sunday School rota with names of willing volunteers. It doesn’t help me much.”

Then I realised that actually it did, actually it took all those worries away. If I believed in a God who placed the stars, then surely I believed that he could cope with a rota of names? Surely I could leave the problem with him? It just wasn’t MY problem, none of my worries were. They were his.

All I have to do is live each day as well as I can. To live in the present – which kind of comes back to what you were saying. I have to live each day as best as I can, which might mean editing my book or asking people to help with some job at church. But as long as I do that right, in the best way I can, then I am only answerable to God. The bigger problem is his and I can just dump it with him and get on with my day, with my ‘now’, my ‘present’.

Perhaps my word should be ‘Trust’. Except I’m not quite holy enough to do that very well, so I’ll leave it with ‘nothing lasts’.

Hope you have a good week. Hope woodpecker doesn’t destroy your house (your house is made of wood, right?)

Take care,
Anne xx

PS: News in brief:
The rats are back. More annoying than I can say. Have found new holes in the duck aviary. Have put down traps and discussed with cats.

We’ve had lots of rain. Loads of it. Makes walking dog each day very unpleasant. Squelching through sodden fields is grim. So is the amount of mud that seems to find its way into my kitchen. Hens are very cross and refuse to leave their perch some days.

I still have a Christmas tree up – the artificial one that I refuse to have anything to do with. The ornaments are gone but the tree remains. I think husband thinks I haven’t noticed. Am saving discussion for when I’ve done something wrong and need some leeway. Shouldn’t be long.

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Joanna

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I have had an idea for my next book. It’s VERY different to my other books but I think will be lots of fun to write. It will take me about 9 months, so I thought I would try out the beginning on you first. Depending on how many people ‘like’ it will help me to decide whether or not to continue writing or change it completely.

I realise I should be posting this at the beginning of the week – always get the most responses on a Monday morning – but I am much too impatient to wait! Here is the first splurge of words. Oh, and Mum, you wont like it.

To save you asking (because my family did): No, it is not based on myself or anyone who I know and, no, I have never wanted to murder anyone at all ever – I could not even kill the rat I caught!

Joanna
by Anne E Thompson

      I first saw them on the bus. They got on after me, the mother helping the toddler up the big step, holding the baby on her hip while she juggled change, paid the driver. I wondered why she hadn’t bought a card or paid by phone, something quick so we didn’t all have to wait.

      I watched as she swung her way to a seat, leaning against the post for support, heaving the toddler onto the chair by his shoulder. Then they sat, a happy family unit, the boy chattering in his high pitched voice, the mother barely listening, watching the town speed past the window, smiling every so often so he knew he had her attention. Knew he was loved. Cared for. They had everything I didn’t have but I didn’t hate them. That would have involved feelings and I tended to not be bothered by those.

      No, I just watched, knew that those children had all the things, all the mothering, that had passed me by. Knew that they were happy. Decided to change things a little. Even up the score, make society a little fairer, more equal.

      Following them was easy. The mother made a great deal about collecting up their bags, warning the boy that theirs was the next stop. She grasped the baby in one hand, bus pole in the other and stood, swaying as we lurched from side to side. She let the boy press the bell button, his chubby fingers reaching up. Almost too high for him. Old ladies in the adjoining seats smiled. Such a cosy scene, a little family returning from a trip to the town.

      They waited until the bus had swung into the stop, was stationary, before they made their way to the door. I was already standing, waiting behind them. The mother glanced behind and I twisted my mouth into a smile, showed my teeth to the boy who hid his face in his mothers jeans, pressing against her as if scared. That was rude. Nothing to be frightened of. Not yet.

      The family jumped from the bus and I stepped down. As the bus left I turned away, walked the opposite direction from the family. In case someone was watching, noticing, would remember later. Not that that was a possibility but it didn’t do to take chances. I strode to the corner, turned it, then made as if I had forgotten something. Searched pockets, glanced at phone, then turned and hurried back.

      The family were still in sight, further down the road but not too far. She had spent time unfolding the buggy, securing the baby, arranging her shopping. All the time in the world.

      I walked behind, gazing into shop windows, keeping a distance between us. They left the main street and began to walk along a road lined with houses, smart semi-detached homes with neat square gardens. Some had extended, built ugly extra bedrooms that loomed above the house, changing the face, destroying the symmetry. There were some smaller houses stuffed by greedy builders into empty plots, a short terrace in red brick.

      It was just after this that the family stopped. The mother scrabbled in her bag, retrieved her key. The boy had already skipped down the path, was standing by the door. The mother began to follow but I was already turning away.

     I would remember the house, could come back later, when it was dark. I would only do it if it was easy, if there was no risk. If she was foolish enough to leave the back door unlocked. No point in going to any effort, it wasn’t as if they meant anything to me. There would be easier options if it didn’t work out. But I thought it probably would. There was something casual about her, about the way she looked so relaxed, unfussy. I thought locking the back door would be low on her priorities until she went to bed herself. People were so complacent, assumed the world was made up of clones of themselves. Which was convenient, often worked to my advantage. As I walked back, towards the bus stop, I realised I was smiling.

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Letters to a Sister : 36

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You can read my sister’s letter at:

http://ruthdalyauthor.blogspot.ca/2015/12/swearing-soap-and-2-minute-meals.html

Here is my reply:

Dear R,

I miss you too at Christmas. I also can’t believe it has gone already, I love it, it makes me remember being little again.

When I was a little girl, I loved looking through people’s handbags – do you remember? If we had visitors, I would sometimes sneak out of the room with their bag, so I could search it in peace. It was possibly embarrassing for Mum, though I never took anything, I was just very curious (I refuse to use the ‘nosey’ word.) The bag I remember the most clearly was the midwife’s bag when she came after brother was born. It was black and VERY heavy and Mum shouted at me for hiding behind the sofa with it. I was misunderstood as a child.

Then we were given handbags by Great Aunt Nell one Christmas. Her presents were always slightly on the unexpected side weren’t they. I remember being given old Christmas cards one year. We loved her dearly (I’m sure not just because she gave us sixpences) but her gifts were somewhat random. So Mum (very naughtily) used to unwrap them before Christmas day, to check what was inside. I found this very exciting, especially as she always told me to not tell Dad (hence confirming it was completely against the rules. Mum has never really done rules.)

Anyway, that year it was handbags. Not sure if they had belonged to Aunty Nell or to one of her long deceased friends. I was very excited by the brown knobbly one with the snappy clip at the top but that was addressed to you (I did try to persuade Mum to switch the name labels but she didn’t break the rules that much.) I was given a basket. With no snappy top.

Mum has not, as far as I remember, ever used a handbag. Perhaps because I always searched it. Or maybe her lack of bag accounts for my fascination with them. Her pockets always have the same things in: a short pencil, an old shopping list, a tissue, some coins and now – which is my reason for writing this – those plastic coins from Waitrose.

Do you know what I mean? -Those plastic counter things that Waitrose have by the door, so you can vote for your favourite charity and then Waitrose will donate money to the one with the most votes? (Not sure if they have these the other side of the Atlantic but you may have noticed them when you were here.) I believe the aim is that every shopper has one vote, uses one counter with each load of shopping, dropped through the slot into the clear plastic container, watching the charity of their choice collect votes. I am sure the aim is NOT for old ladies, who happen to know that a charity of their choice is soon to be appearing, to hoard the plastic counters in their pockets. Nor to collect them from other stores and save them until they are next in their own one. I just hope she never finds a shop that sells the same kind of counter – even Waitrose staff might notice if two thousand extra counters suddenly appear. I have broached this subject with her but I feel it needs reinforcement – when are you next here?

Actually, Waitrose has been brilliant for Mum. She loves the free coffee that you get with their loyalty card and the free ‘samples’ of cakes that sometimes are left on the counter. (I wont mention the unfortunate incident when the baker left a tray of freshly baked muffins on the same counter and someone tucked in thinking they were free….)

I like our supermarkets. I like that they reduce food towards the end of the day. All the students learn what time this happens and loiter near the door waiting for the ‘Half Price Man’ to do his rounds so they can snaffle up the bargains. I like that they sell lots of ethnically diverse foods (the US supermarkets only really stocked US food) and that they donate left over food to charities for the homeless.

I am finding the 5p carrier bags bit of a challenge (they recently stopped providing free ones.) – I like the idea in principle but I do find it hard to remember to take a bag with me when I shop, too many years of being lazy/wasteful. My own bags are now stuffed with reuseable bags, just in case. Which with old receipts and pens that don’t work, just about fills my bag. Not very exciting should a child want to explore.

Take care,
Anne xxx

PS: I always show these to people who are mentioned before I post them, just in case they will be embarrassed/sue me. Mum assures me that it was Great Aunt Queenie, not Nell, who gave us the handbags. (I am not entirely sure if I have spelt Queenie correctly, or even if that was her real name or just what we called her. I have certainly never met another Queenie – have you? It wasn’t one of our name choices when we had daughter, though I quite like Nell as a name.)

Star Wars Review by An Uninitiated…

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I’ve never watched a Star Wars film. Ever. Until yesterday, when I went to see Episode 7, The Force Awakens. As none of my family have been particularly besotted by it, I actually knew nothing of the story either. So, would I understand the plot? Would I be captivated by the story? Wowed by the special effects? Here’s how my Star Wars initiation went:

I watched the film at the cinema with friends who had all seen at least some other Episodes. I instructed them to not explain the story to me, I wanted to see how much I understood on my own. (Risky strategy as asking for explanations during films is pretty standard for me at the best of times.) Being at the cinema was an important element – I guessed from sighs and general audience reaction when a character was well known.

The film began with a written explanation. We were introduced to a character, Luke Skywalker. Not, I felt, the most original of names. If I was writing a film and suggested the space man was to be called Ben Moonhopper or Peter Starjumper, I think it would be rejected. Husband was not receptive to this pearl of wisdom.

We then saw what appeared to be giant Playmobil men in a spaceship. I always enjoyed my children playing with Playmobil, so could relate to the decision to include them in a film. They were all white and all identical, which was somewhat confusing until one helpfully put a bloody handprint on his head, thus differentiating himself from the others.

Another character was a giant marble with a sliding head who made squeaky farting noises. The audience seemed to warm to him.

There were lots of people in tatty clothes. I did feel there was a mismatch between the technology needed to produce spaceships and intelligent robots and the technology used in clothing manufacturing. Perhaps it was a fashion statement.

We then met an actor who I didn’t recognise, who had Rufus Sewell eyes (good for acting tension, fear and discomfort during torture scenes. Not someone you would leave to care for small children.)

One of the Playmobil white men removed his helmet, which was a surprise. There was a man inside. He was rather sweaty so I’m thinking the design of Playmobil suits was perhaps not a good one for general use. Also not sure how one would launder them. Husband told me this was irrelevant and would I please be quiet and just watch film. In fact, all the Playmobil men had real people inside them. I am not sure why they wanted to look identical. It would be good to wear on the school run when you had just rolled out of bed.

The next character we met was a girl (dressed in bandages – I really did not get the costume ideas.) She bought a powder that she could add to water and heat and it bubbled up into something that looked like bread. This was intensely interesting. I would LOVE cooking dinners to be that easy.

Although the clothes were rubbish, all the hairstyles were very complicated. Maybe costume budget got used up on hairspray. And sand – there was a lot of sand.

The girl who was the clever cook could also speak lots of languages, including ‘machine’. As well as American and Scottish (particularly tricky one I find.)

The film had lots of machines. Lots of loud wind instrument music (actually, the music throughout was excellent. Well done Mr Williams.) There was lots of sand. Lots of explosions. Lots of props that I recognised from toyshops and fast-food giveaways over the last forty years. There was some good dry humour, some impressive chase scenes and a lot of hair spray.

I was then completely confused when Indiana Jones turned up. Very unexpected. He still has very good hair (which is essential for a Star Wars actor.) No hat or whip but still wore a leather jacket. Another actor also pointed out the jacket. He is a very good actor, I warmed to his character immediately (perhaps because he was the only one I recognised.) Actually, connecting with the characters was something I found difficult. I never felt like I knew them, so didn’t really care if they got blown up. He arrived with a giant teddy/extremely hairy man who had a speech disorder. I never really understood if he came from a planet of hairy beings, was a pet or they were just being inventive with costume ideas.

For most of the film the scenery was fairly stark. There were plants in one bit, when they turned up at a futuristic Hogwarts but mostly it was machines and sand. It didn’t look a very comfortable place to live.

There was enough explanation for me to mostly follow what was happening, though some of the story only made sense if you have seen previous episodes. I knew when a character from a previous film had popped up by the audience reaction and I could tell when something important was happening because the music changed from wind instruments to strings, but there weren’t many clues for the uninitiated in the script. I also got confused by what was spaceship and what was planet. I would see a character enter what was clearly a spacecraft, then when they left it they were in a snow covered forest on a planet.

The plot followed the same basic theme of most other films : Good fighting Evil. There was an added element of The Force, which I never quite got to grips with. For most of the film I thought this was some kind of power that the evil chaps had but then later the good characters said, “May the force be with you.” I have heard this phrase quoted on television so I knew it was famous – I still have absolutely no idea what it means.

The film was well made, had some good special effects, lots of action, some clearly sad bits and happy bits. However, if you have not seen other episodes, there was no real connection and the emotion passed you by. I would say, if you are the other person in the world who has never seen a Star Wars film, watch some of the others first. This one did not really stand alone. You kind of HAVE to watch it because everyone else will but I don’t think it was ever intended to be watched in isolation. Either that or take a book to read……

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Another article by Anne E Thompson:

The World was Dark


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The World was Dark

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The world was dark. Nations fought each other with weapons and cruelty and military power. Politicians sought to conquer, individuals worked subversively causing upheaval and bloodshed and fear. Few felt peace, all were aware of black terror in various corners of the world.

The society was dark. Rich men ruled with might, there was little regard for the poor, the ill, the weak. People were trapped in the role to which they were born. Life was cheap, with a market for slaves, the ownership of another human, the trampling of rights.

Religion was dark. A myriad of beliefs, many advocating bloodshed and cruelty, most leaving people bewildered and confused. People chose their gods with care, hoping to gain protection or wealth. Some became their own god, others looked to the stars.

The night was dark. A young couple, displaced, needing shelter, a place for her to give birth. Workers fought the coldness of night on hills beyond the town as they protected their flocks.

In the night of a dark society in a black world, a light was born. A light to guide, marked by a star, heralded by angels, sought by seekers of truth. A light to pierce the darkness.

Today, our world is dark. We watch nations fight each other, hear tales of oppression. There is fear of terrorism, a half ignored knowledge of atrocities in foreign lands, a sense of hopelessness. Inequalities threaten our stability so we try to forget the poor, the disadvantaged, those suffering from problems too big for us to solve. Easier to blame their governments for unrest, hunger, climate change. It is too big for us.

Our society is dark. Overwhelmed by economic uncertainties, the distrust of politicians, the struggling poverty of the refugee, the unemployed, the disabled. The fear of instability that makes us cling to our wealth and families and careers. The knowledge that people are trafficked, trapped within our society and abused, hurt. Invisible suffering. A media that distorts and dominates and influences. Few are at peace.

Beliefs today are dark. People are emptily sliding towards addictions to alcohol, gambling and drugs. A confusion of religion that causes a distrust of all exclusive belief. The fascination with the occult, the selfishness of humanism and the pursuit of pleasure.

So where is that light, that promise from long ago? Not extinguished. Still shining. Still waiting. A continued promise. A light that will extinguish darkness.

A light with many names: An advisor to guide you – don’t you long for some good advice? A God worth worshipping – don’t you wish you knew the truth? A father who will never die – don’t you ache to be cared for? Someone who brings real peace, stability, safety. His government will exclude no one, will last forever, be truly fair.

The light continues to shine, waiting for people to open their eyes and see. Waiting to set them free.

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Modified from Isaiah chapter 9.

Thank you for reading.

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Letters to a Sister

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Thinking about new year resolutions…

Do you swear very often? I try not to but I swear more than Mum and Dad used to. I’m not sure I ever heard Dad swear in anger. I heard Mum about three times throughout our whole childhood, which is pretty impressive really. Each of those three times was at me for something I had done. I do remember one particular incident when she swore at me and Dad came into the hall behind her and I felt positively elated because I knew that he would tell her off. I still got sent to my room, I can’t even remember what I had said or done, but whatever it was, I felt that Mum had been worse because she had sworn. It was such a big deal.

Do you remember at Infant School when if you were heard swearing you had to go to the staff room and rinse out your mouth with soap and water? Tasted foul. (The reason that I know this was your fault – you had told me to put two fingers in my mouth and say “bucket” and I was showing other children on the playground when the teacher caught me!) Not sure you would be allowed to soap children’s mouths today, though I don’t think it hurt us. It also didn’t really stop us swearing, we just made sure that there weren’t any teachers around.

As I said, I can’t remember Dad swearing. I do remember him smoking though. He told me that it was good for his health when he was working late because it kept him warm but that I shouldn’t tell Mum. I was young enough to believe him. It wasn’t until later that I realised that what he was telling me was untrue, we always just accepted what we were told. I sometimes start to explain something to my own children (like that the moon is made of cheese) and I’ll suddenly think, “Oh no, that is rubbish actually.”

I did try to not swear when the children were small and I must have been fairly successful. Someone (stupidly) gave them magnetic letters to go on the fridge and the boys used to write swear words on there because they thought I didn’t know any so wouldn’t realise what they had written. Most of them were spelt wrong. Very disappointing as a teacher.

I don’t think swearing is a good trait, it shows a certain lack of control. I also think it reflects more who you are used to being with, we tend to assimilate speech patterns without noticing. I tell off my children for swearing but it’s not the worst thing they could do.

When we lived in the US, the swear words were different. I was shocked to hear the pastor ‘swearing’ from the pulpit. They were shocked when I ‘swore’ during Sunday School. My children tell me that a lot of the words I think are swear words are now acceptable. I tend to not believe them.

Actually, we did get told off quite a lot growing up, I think perhaps children did in those days. Not just by Mum and Dad either, I remember at the Girl’s Group we went to at church, being told off for giggling. Do you remember that quiz we made up, where we read a Psalm and then read it again with mistakes in it and people had to stand up if they heard a mistake? It was very long and repetitive and we started giggling and the leader told us off, said we should show more respect for God’s word. She was, I suppose, sort of right but now I’m older, I don’t think actually God would have minded two teenaged girls giggling over something that sounded strange. It was the strangeness of the words that made us giggle, nothing really about God.

That’s often the trouble with the Bible, the words sound very strange. It’s easy to forget that they were real conversations, real letters and poems and stories written for real people. Much of it was written by rough manual workers – I bet they swore sometimes.

I have been reading the Psalms again lately. We have just finished studying ‘Emotionally Healthy Spirituality’ at church – a study book written by someone whose name sounds like a fungal infection. Anyway, it had some interesting bits but isn’t really my sort of thing. I like to read the Bible alongside some kind of commentary, something that explains the weird phraseology and the context in which it was written. I am using a book by Michael Wilcock, who I don’t think I would like if I met him (a bit bossy and ‘preachy’) but his writing is interesting.

He begins with the first Psalm/poem/song (whatever you want to call it) and he explains the odd word ‘blessed’. When we say “bless” today we either mean it like a pat on the head – “Aw, bless” or because someone has sneezed – “Bless you!” – a throw back to when the plague in 1600’s started with a sneeze, a sort of quick blessing before the person dies. Though sneezing today is unlikely to lead to a quick death. However, Mr Wilcock, the preachy one, defines “Blessed” as : a ‘life of delight and fruitfulness, with a sense of worth’. I like that, I want that sort of life.

I hope your new year is blessed.

Take care,
Anne xxxx

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Thank you for reading.

This is a reply to my sister’s letter, which you can read at:
http://ruthdalyauthor.blogspot.ca/2015/12/next-year-im-going-to-hawaii-for.html

If you enjoyed this, why not sign up to follow my blog?
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Things to Avoid at Christmas…..

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I love Christmas but I must admit to a certain amount of stress each year. Especially when I start watching those super organised women on television preparing their own decorations, or I visit that gifted friend who secretly should have been an interior designer or, worst of all, I open one of those “all you need to know for Christmas” recipe books. So, in the belief that I might not be the only human that feels somewhat inadequate at this time of year, I thought I would share some of the knowledge that I have gleaned over the last few years. Here is a tried and tested list of things that you should NOT do.

 

The Tree
Everyone loves a Christmas tree. Here are some things to beware of:
If you take a man with you to buy a real tree, he will lose all sense of proportion. This is true. Crude jokes aside, it seems to be some strange male trait that they ALWAYS want to buy a tree that is much too big for the space in your home. They always forget the bucket and top decoration add extra height, they always forget that you might want to live in the room where they plan to put it and if it’s too wide everyone will have to scrabble through the branches to communicate. So my advice, do NOT involve a male of any age in choosing the tree.

You cannot however, avoid them being present for the annual family discussion on where the tree should go. Now, we have lived in our present house for eight years and EVERY Christmas we discuss (heatedly) where the tree should be placed. Every year it always goes in exactly the same place that it always has.

If you buy a tree in late December, your family will constantly tell you everyone else has theirs already. If you buy a tree in early December, it will probably be bald by New Year.

If you decide to ‘plant’ your tree in soil, over time, as it is watered, the soil becomes unstable and the tree will gradually fall over. If you follow the shop’s instructions and “treat your tree like the living plant that it is” and stand it in water, then after a while, the warmth of your house will have turned the water stagnant and everyone will be asking you what the funny smell is. If, on realising this, you then add a drop of bleach to the water, the tree first gets very pale looking and then dies very quickly. A dead tree will droop and all the ornaments slide off the branches. Your lounge also smells a little like a public lavatory. (Trust me, I know this.)

If you ever want a tasteful tree, you must NEVER allow the children to put on their home made ornaments. Every year I produce those faded photos in plastic frames, the robin that sheds paint, I even have the clay angels that my sister made one year which look like they slept in a puddle after an especially hard night out. It is true, they bring back lots of special memories, but I can now never NOT put them on the tree, so my tree, whilst precious, is also incredibly tacky.

If you do not water your tree, do NOT leave the lights on it and go out for the evening or it might burn down your house. (This did not happen to us, but it did happen to a neighbour in the US. A dried pine is incredibly flammable.)

If you have an artificial tree, you can spend hours sorting out branches and colour codes. My advice is tell someone else that they are in charge of putting up the tree because it is too hard for you (this works well if you have males in the family, who will actually believe that you are incapable of matching colours.) They will also be keen to supervise the taking down of the tree because they will know how impossible it is to put up if not stored carefully.

Decorations

Do NOT believe that everyone who helps decorate the house will also help tidy up after Christmas. Every year I say, “Only put out the ornaments that you will put away afterwards”. I may as well not bother. I know this is true because last year I was ill and we have had a nativity scene on one window sill all year. I find family members are very keen to decorate all sorts of random places and not at all keen to tidy them afterwards.

Gifts

Do NOT buy gifts too early and if you do, do not forget where you have hidden them. It is annoying to find winter nightclothes for your daughter in June.

If posting gifts, do NOT forget to name each gift so the recipient knows who they are for (you would be surprised at what has happened in our family…..)

Do NOT assume you will know when your child stops believing in Father Christmas (sorry if this is a spoiler.) When I asked one of my sons on his eighteenth birthday (okay, so he wasn’t quite that old) if he really still believed in Santa, he informed me that he had not believed for years but hadn’t liked to disappoint me by letting me know. This was a huge relief for the whole family as we could now stop worrying he was completely thick and it also meant that I could give the children their ‘stocking gifts’ the evening before Christmas which meant that we all slept much better Christmas Eve.

Do NOT forget to check that either your husband has bought his mother a gift or you have bought one for her yourself. Really, I cannot stress enough how important this one is……

Food

Unless you are a very organised person, do NOT buy a large frozen turkey. They take DAYS to defrost and where will you put it during that time? If you leave it in the utility room, the cat eats it. If you put it in the garage, the mice eat it. If you leave it in the oven to defrost, you are sure to forget and turn on the oven to preheat – melting plastic over poultry is not a good smell, trust me. If you place it in a bucket of brine, as was suggested one year, what are you going to do with the salmonella infected brine afterwards and how will you stop the dog licking it? If you put it in the fridge, you cannot fit in any of the shelves, let alone other food. Trust me, big frozen turkeys are a bad idea.

Do NOT forget that supermarkets ARE open other than on the bank holidays. I always do this, I try to buy enough food for the whole holiday period which is a military operation in an over flowing supermarket with insufficient parking and queues the length of the Nile to pay. Then, soon after boxing day we always run out of something essential, like milk and I go to a beautifully empty supermarket which is now selling all the same food that is decomposing in my fridge for half the price. Being overly prepared is always a mistake I feel. Just buy enough for the Christmas day dinner.

If, like me, you have a problem with chocolates, when you buy the family tub of chocolates, do NOT forget to also buy tape. Then, if by mistake you open them and eat lots before Christmas, you can buy a replacement, add the ones you don’t much like and reseal the tub. Your family will never know. Honestly, every year my husband tells me that there are a surprisingly large number of green triangles in our chocolate tin.

Important Things

Do NOT forget to go to a carol service. Actually, I do not especially like carols unless they are sung by a choir. They are mostly really really long. A lot of them also have things in them that are very European and nothing to do with the actual account in the Bible. But I do like carol services, full of excited children and people in thick coats that they don’t have anywhere to hang. One year at our church we even managed to set someone on fire. (It was an accident, I should add. She leant against a candle and she wasn’t at all hurt, just ruined her coat. The following year as a safety precaution the candles were suspended above us. Unfortunately they weren’t the non drip variety and we all made polite conversation afterwards with white wax in our hair.)

Do not forget to build some family traditions of your own. On Christmas eve, if my children are in the house, awake before noon and sober (I assume nothing these days) then they still like to help prepare the vegetables. We all sit round peeling sprouts and remembering how we did it every year while watching the ‘Lost Toys’ and the year that the youngest removed every leaf from his sprout and then declared, “Mine’s empty!”

Most importantly, do NOT forget what is important. Christmas is not about family or tradition or nice food. Actually, it’s about a God who thought you were special enough that he came to this dirty smelly earth as a baby. Even if you don’t believe in him, he believes in you and he cared enough to come so that you can have a chance to change your mind if you want to. So spend a little time trying to remember what it’s all about. Read my Mary story or better still, look in Luke’s bit of the bible and read the account of what actually happened – no donkeys, no inn keepers with tea-towels on their heads, no fairies or snow. Just a simple story of something special.

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Thank you for reading – and Happy Christmas.
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Letters to a Sister : 34

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This is a reply to my sister’s letter, which you can read at:
http://ruthdalyauthor.blogspot.ca/2015/12/next-year-im-going-to-hawaii-for.html

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Glad you have noticed that it’s nearly Christmas (I never like to assume.) Though I’m not sure Christmas Eve is a great time to do all your shopping. I was relatively organised this year – not working helps a lot with that. Then I had a few days with a nasty cold, so was glad I had got ahead.

Colds are the worst illness I think, you become very aware of everything physical (like not being able to breathe or swallow.) I’m reading The Martian, which son gave me for my birthday. Have you read it? I will have to see the film now, the book is brilliant, though some of the science was a little beyond me. He (the main character, not son) also had trouble breathing (due to low oxygen on Mars) so I felt we had something in common. Good book – perhaps I’ll send you a copy.

It’s hard to be too sympathetic about your dog’s tail swooshing the tree. I am writing a photo-book entitled, “207 places a cat can hide up a tree.” Perhaps you can help with the sequel : “Symmetry is for Cowards”.

Buying gifts for everyone is always bit of a challenge – it’s the deciding bit that’s difficult isn’t it. Our relatives seem to fit into several categories. There are the ones who give you copious ‘hints’ about what they would like from about August onwards, love receiving gifts and would be happy with an old shoe box really as long as it was wrapped up. (That’s Mum.) Then there are the very organised ones who send a list, often with computer links to the shops that sell things. Makes gift buying very easy. (That’s daughter.) Then there are the people who mainly just want food and alcohol or money. They are harder to buy a ‘real’ gift for (that’s the boys.) Then there are the people who don’t really want anything. They are mostly men.

Do you remember how Dad used to tell us what he didn’t want each year? We clearly got it wrong too many times. I can hear him now saying,
“Not pear-drops or barley-sugars or extra strong mints. And I’ve got enough socks.” Not very helpful of him.

Do you remember that year when I collected all those different sized boxes to wrap his gift in? I think the actual present was socks (it usually was.) I wrapped them in paper, then put them into increasingly bigger boxes. The last box was a big box that I had filched from the back of the supermarket. I was so excited! I remember not sleeping the night before, imagining him opening the first box, only to find another box inside, then opening that one to find an even smaller one. He would have have been good at opening it too, would have made a big deal about being surprised that it was another box, being disappointed that the gift was getting smaller, sharing the joke until, surprise, he reached socks. However, I never saw him open it. I had left the big box next to the dustbin so he wouldn’t find it. The dustbin men did and took it away. Was a low point.

Husband is another difficult person to buy for. This year I wondered about buying him an air-rifle, so he could join the cats in exterminating the rats. So I went to a gun shop. I have never been to a gun shop before. It was very interesting and a lot like buying a magic wand in the Harry Potter films (so you would enjoy it.) The shop was in a nearby town, but it could have been in Diagon Alley, was very dark and foreboding with grills at the windows and a bell to ask for access. Inside were all kinds of guns displayed on the walls. And men. It was a very masculine shop, lots of hunter types. It even had a magic wardrobe – well, a very tall gun safe, but probably it could transport you to other places. The shopkeeper came to help. He didn’t actually look like a character from Harry Potter, disappointingly. To be honest, even if he had, I wouldn’t say, he owned a lot of lethal weapons. Apparently you have to hold a rifle, try it out for size to see if it suits you (like a magic wand.) You have to bond with it. Then I was given a safety talk, about how every gun, even an airgun, must be used properly or it can be dangerous, that there are limits to where and how you are allowed to use them (like magic wands.) I didn’t buy one. It was all too difficult. Plus am not too comfortable with the killing aspect (which I also didn’t mention in the shop. Felt they didn’t want to hear that.)

Any ideas for what I can buy him? Otherwise it will be socks and extra strong mints.

Take care,
Anne xx

PS. Your idea of going to Hawaii next year is tempting. However, I rather like being in England for Christmas, it feels right. I do though think my whole extended family would just love to join you. I will suggest it to them.

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Mary’s Story

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I am reposting this because it’s Christmas….

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     I travelled to Bethlehem in a small cart. Every bump (and there were many) was agony. As I was jolted along, I was wracked with pain. The baby’s time was near, you see, and the pain was almost unbearable. Later, they would sing songs about a cute donkey carrying me. Nice thought! I don’t think there’s any way you could have got me on a donkey.

     As each contraction cramped every muscle in my torso, I huddled up like an animal and prayed for it to be over. I could see Joseph, watching me as he walked alongside. He really didn’t have the first idea what to do. Oh, how I wanted my mother. I yearned for her to be there, holding my hand, telling me everything was alright and would be over soon.

    When we arrived at Joseph’s uncle’s house, the women folk came and helped me inside. The room was crowded. All Joseph’s male relatives from miles around had come to the house for shelter and food, responding to the summons from the Romans. The women were busy cooking supper and the men were drinking wine and comparing stories. They all told Joseph how much he resembled his grandfather Matthan and laughed at old stories from years ago. The smell of fish and fresh bread was nauseating. I was so tired and so uncomfortable.

     Joseph knew I was suffering and asked if there was somewhere quiet that I could go. There was no chance that we would get a place in the inn, they had filled up days ago. Somewhere quiet, in a little house packed with relatives? There were some fraught discussions and then his aunt suggested that the animal cave, below the living quarters, might be best. It wasn’t terribly clean, but it would be quiet and private and at least it wouldn’t smell of fish!

     Joseph helped me go down, and a couple of the women came too. One of them examined me and told me the baby was a long way off yet, first babies always take their time in coming. This was not great news but I felt better having her there. I felt that she knew what was happening, had seen this before and it took some of the fear away. I was frightened you see. I was horribly afraid that somehow I would damage my baby. My baby and God’s.

      I knew he was going to be special, I knew I had a great task ahead of me but it all seemed to be going horribly wrong. I trusted that God was still in control but He felt so far away. Could the baby not have been born in a palace, surrounded by comfort? Would these poor beginnings really be part of a plan? Could they really make this king accessible to the people? I had no idea. I was a mere girl, I had no education and my memory of scriptures was often fuzzy. To be honest, at this present moment, I didn’t even care. I just wanted this baby OUT!

     Special or not, my body was tired of carrying him, tired of being stretched and pushed, of fitting something inside that was now too big to be there. I needed this baby to be born and I was too exhausted to wait much longer. How I longed for sleep. The pain in my back was terrible. Great waves of cramp that seared through my body, making me oblivious to everything else. I was vaguely aware that someone was sweeping the floor and moving the animals to a far corner. They had laid out a mattress and blankets for me to rest on but I couldn’t lie still for long. I felt better standing, rocking in time with the pain, trying to remember to breathe, in out, in out. Some one offered me water but I couldn’t drink. I wasn’t thirsty, I just wanted this baby to be born.

      I could see Joseph with his big anxious eyes watching me. He didn’t know what to do. Someone suggested he should go into the house to eat and I nodded in agreement. There was nothing he could do and the poor man must have been tired too. He had endured such an emotional time lately. First there was his fear and anger when he first heard about the baby (now that was a difficult conversation.) Then he had to endure the smirks of his friends when the pregnancy became public knowledge. He never complained, but I know he felt embarrassed, wished that God could have chosen a different girl.

     We had been travelling for five days, with hardly any rest and the last couple of days had been more chilly. I know he felt the burden of caring for me, watching for bandits on the roads and wondering if we would make it to Bethlehem in time. If the baby had come early I don’t know what he’d have done – left me with strangers on the road somewhere I guess and come to register on his own. One didn’t mess with a Roman decree…..

     The pain eventually became almost constant. Joseph had eaten and rested but I continued to sway in discomfort in the little cave of animals. Every so often one of them would poop and although the women with me cleaned it up quickly the smell pervaded the atmosphere.

      I could hear the musicians gathering outside, someone must have told them the birth would be soon. That gave me hope, maybe soon the baby would arrive.

       Then at last, in a final searing pain, the baby was born. I looked down at his blue waxy body as he wriggled on the blanket and I knew that he was mine. One of the women wiped him down with oil and salt and I held him in my arms while they looked for the swaddling bands in our luggage. How beautiful he was. His indigo eyes would soon turn brown and they gazed at me trustingly. I loved him with my whole being.

      Outside, there was the sound of music and singing as the musicians heralded the arrival of a boy. Joseph came and took him from me. He held the tiny baby in his giant carpenter’s hands, hands that spoke of hard work and safety. Then the baby started to mouth for food and Joseph passed him back. The women showed me how to feed him, but he was soon asleep. Then we gently wrapped him in the swaddling bands, securing his tiny limbs so he would feel snug and secure and his bones would grow straight and true. He was so beautiful.

      It was hard to remember what the angel had told me, that this was God’s son too. I began to wonder if I had imagined it, if it were all a dream. This baby did not look like God, he was a baby. My baby.
“If it’s true God,” I thought, “Let there be another sign. He is so little and I love him so much. Remind me again…”

      I too needed to sleep. Joseph fetched fresh hay and put it in the animal’s manger, covering it with a soft blanket. I didn’t want him to put the baby there, I wanted to keep him on the bed next to me, but Joseph was worried I might roll on him in my sleep. Then he laid the baby down and told me to sleep. He looked deep into my eyes and brushed my collar bone lightly with his fingers.

      “Soon you’ll be truly mine,” he whispered. I knew what he meant and felt myself blush.

      I was so tired, I thought I would sleep for a week. I actually slept for about two hours. I was abruptly woken by loud voices and a draft of cold air as the door was flung open. There, standing uncertainly in the doorway was a group of youths. Their clothes were dirty and exuded the strong smell of sheep. Joseph was with them.

     “Mary? Are you awake?” he asked.

       It would be hard not to be with all the noise from outside.

       “These shepherds want to see the baby. They were told by angels where they could find him and they have come to look at him.”

       I nodded and they trouped into the room.

       They seemed so big and clumsy in such a small space, I was worried they might hurt the baby. But they didn’t try to touch him, they just stared for a while and then one of them knelt and they all followed suit, kneeling before the manger, staring at the baby.

       Then they told me their story, how they had been in the fields and an angel had appeared. They had thought they were going to die, to be struck down right where they were. The angel had reassured them, told them that a saviour had been born, the Christ who we’ve all been waiting for. They would find him lying in a manger. Then suddenly there were lots of angels, all praising God and saying he was pleased with people on earth. After the angels had gone, finding they were still alive after all, the shepherds decided to come at once and see for themselves. It was as though they couldn’t quite believe what they had seen and heard, they needed to actually see the baby with their own eyes.

       I felt so humbled and so cared for. God had heard my thoughts, He was reassuring me. It was all His plan, not some terrible mistake. We were meant to be here. He even knew about the manger. I listened and smiled and treasured my thoughts.

      The shepherds left as noisily as they came. I could hear them in the streets, shouting their news, telling everyone what had happened. They were so excited. They had of course woken the baby who was now crying with a thin wail that jarred my nerves and was impossible to ignore. So I fed him some more and then we both slept. A tired, contented sleep borne from exhaustion and wonder.

       After eight days, Joseph came and circumcised the baby. How he wailed. It felt cruel, though I knew it was the right thing to do, even in this strange place we must obey the Jewish laws. We also formally gave him the name Yeshua, the name we had been told to give him by the angel all those months ago. I wondered if Joseph minded, people would know it wasn’t a family name. I also had no one called Yeshua in my own family, though I did know a boy from my childhood with the name.

      After forty days, we had to travel to Jerusalem, to pay for redemption at the temple. As Joseph was from the tribe of Judah, we had to pay five shekels of silver. We couldn’t afford a lamb, so bought two pigeons to sacrifice. It was nice to leave Nazareth and to have some exercise at last, to see people and to take my baby into the world. I felt quite excited as I approached the temple, our holy place. I didn’t recognise anyone, but everyone could see we had a new baby and lots of the women came over to see him. I felt so happy!

     We walked through the Beautiful Gate and up to the Gate of Nicanor. Then something strange happened.

On display in the V&A Museum in London, is a decorated box, showing a scene from this story. It is supposed to have held Simeon’s remains.

      As Joseph and I walked through the temple, a man approached us. He came to look at Yeshua and indicated that he wanted to hold him. That was a little unusual but there was something about him, something that made you sure he was a good man, someone you could trust. When he looked at the baby, he got all emotional and prayed, thanking God and saying that now he could die in peace. He blessed me and Joseph too and then he leant towards me and said something which was very strange. He said Yeshua would cause “the fall and rising of many in Israel” and would be “a sign that would be opposed so that the thoughts of many hearts may be revealed.”

      What does that mean? I know that he is God’s own son and that he is part of the plan to establish God’s reign on earth. Will he be opposed? Surely everyone will accept God’s anointed one, we have waited so long for him. Then he said something that made me afraid. His face was very near, I could smell his breath. He said that a sword would pierce my soul. It made me very frightened, I practically snatched Yeshua away from him! I want my son to grow strong and be happy, will I suffer for this?

      I knew I was tired, not getting enough sleep and it was hard to care for a new baby in a strange place without my mother to help me. I felt that I did not want to hear the man’s words, even if they were true.

      The man left us and almost at once an old lady approached. She was ancient, her white hair showed under her mitpahath and she leant heavily on a stick. What I noticed most were her eyes. They almost sparkled. You could tell at once that she was a holy woman, also one who loved to laugh. As soon as she saw Yeshua she started to pray loudly, thanking God, telling people nearby that if they wanted Jerusalem to be redeemed, they should look to the baby. I was glad that no Romans were allowed in the temple, we would have been in trouble.

      We finished making the offerings and then went back to Bethlehem. I didn’t know whether to tell Joseph what the old man had told me. I kept thinking about his words, worrying about what they might mean. I was so tired, I decided I would wait and maybe tell him later.

      The months passed and we settled into life in Bethlehem. We moved into a little house and Joseph worked on the many building projects that the Romans have introduced. Yeshua continued to thrive. He grew into a sturdy toddler and would walk around the room holding onto the stools and baskets. I loved to feel his solid weight when I carried him on my hip. He started to sleep much better at night and Joseph and I were thinking about having another child. Then everything changed.

      It was one evening, still quite early but we had filled the lamp with olive oil and lit the linen wick. Joseph put it on a bushel basket, so the room was well lit and we could talk about the day. Suddenly, there was a banging at the door. Joseph went at once and there, in the road, was a group of Persian travellers. They had dismounted from their horses and were peering intently into the house.

       They told Joseph they had seen a star and had come to worship the king. I was so glad I hadn’t gone to bed yet. We let them into the house and I went to get Yeshua. He was damp from sleep and his tired eyes looked blearily around him. I wondered if he would cry but he seemed fascinated by our strange visitors. They wore their hair in long curls and one had a band of gold on his head. It glinted in the lamp light and I could see Yeshua watching it intently. Their clothes were patterned with birds and flowers.

      We offered them wine, it was clear they were tired from their journey. I was embarrassed that we only had two stools to offer them, but they didn’t seem to mind and in fact insisted that I should sit on one with Yeshua and they were happy to sit on the rush mat. They didn’t really sit anyway, they wanted to kneel before Yeshua.

      Then they gave him gifts. They were beautiful to look at. They gave him gold, signifying that he is a king. They gave him frankincense. The strong aroma filled the house and I wondered if Yeshua was to be a priest, even though he is not descended from Levi. They also gave him myrrh. Myrrh is costly but is for embalming a body. It was a strange gift for a baby and I wondered what it meant.

       They told us their story before they left. In their Persian home, they were magi, watching the stars and foretelling the future. Many months ago, at the time of Yeshua’s birth, they had seen a special star which they knew meant a powerful new king had been born and they determined they would find him and worship him. Unfortunately, following the star caused them to go to Jerusalem first (I always knew that star gazing was a misleading activity.) They went to Herod’s palace and asked where the new king was. This was scary, Herod had shown he was not a king to be trusted and his cruelty was well known. I would not have wanted to visit his palace.

     However, it sounded as though he had decided to be helpful. He asked the scribes to research the early scriptures and they discovered that the promised king was to be born in Bethlehem. The king told the Easterners and asked them to find the king and then return and tell him the exact location, so that he too could worship. I wondered what would happen next. Would Herod himself come to visit my precious baby or would we be summoned to the palace? This was not a comfortable thought.

      I also wondered why the palace scribes had not come to visit us. Did they not believe the scriptures that they studied so diligently? Surely if they were truly expecting a redeemer they would also have come?

       The men left. They planned to sleep in an inn and return to Jerusalem the next day. We could not offer them lodging in our tiny house and they seemed content to leave now they had seen Yeshua. I returned Yeshua to bed and soon after Joseph and I also went to sleep.

       I had not been asleep for long when Joseph woke me. He shook me awake, then went to light the lamp. I could see his face was tense and instantly turned to check Yeshua was well. He was sleeping soundly.

      Joseph told me I needed to get up at once, we needed to leave. He said that he had had a dream, like the dream when the angel told him that the baby inside me was God’s son. It was so intense and real that he could not ignore it. He said he had been told we must leave Israel, Yeshua was in danger, Herod planned to kill him.

      I wondered why I too had not be warned and then I realised, God had told Joseph to take care of me and Yeshua. That was a hard task for a man, to care for a son that was not his own. So God was now telling Joseph alone what we needed to do, underlining his role, establishing him as head of our family. It was a kind act.

      I began to pack our things but Joseph was hurrying me, telling me to only take what was essential. We were to go to Egypt. Egypt! Could this be right? Was Yeshua not to be king of the Jews? I packed hurriedly and we left that very night.

      What would the future hold? Would we ever return to our home town? The future was uncertain but I knew that something bigger than us was happening.

      Whatever happened, God had a plan and no one could alter the course of that.

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      This account obviously involves a lot of imagination. However, I believe it is also historically and Biblically accurate (somewhat more accurate than some of our christmas carols!)

I used a variety of sources including:
The gospels of Matthew and Luke
Geoffrey Bromily (1995)
William Hendriksen
William Barclay
Joseph P Amar (university of Notre Dame)
Michael Marlowe
Tessa Afshar

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Thank you for reading.

If you enjoyed this, why not sign up to follow my blog?
Then you will receive all my posts by email – usually two per week.

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Letters to a Sister 33

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I took Mum Christmas shopping in Crawley. It started as expected with many laps of the car park looking for a space. We could, of course, have avoided this by following the signs that a dodgy bloke was holding up outside the car park, directing us to a £2 car parking place. I think he had written it on an old cardboard box. He looked like he eats small children for breakfast, wasn’t sure I entirely trusted that his ‘car park’ would be legal. Or near the shops. Or safe. But perhaps I’m just cynical.

Next adventure was trying to reach shop level. We were parked on level three. There was a lift but it didn’t seem to prioritise going to the top floor. So we would watch it leave ground floor, rise to level one, then level two, then pause (while we held our breath) then drop to level one. We joined two women who looked annoyed. They had been waiting four days already. I decided to go down the stairs. I left Mum, promising I would return by tea time with food and water (I could have done with those Jaffa cakes you took back to Canada) and walked down.

There were stairs down to level two. Then the staircase ended. Unexpected design flaw I felt, when designing a shopping centre one should assume the people parking want to access the shops. I had to go back into the car park and walk to the end to find stairs that took me to the shops. A sign would have been a kind thought. Then, on level two, there were escalators, which made me quite hopeful of reaching shops. Unfortunately, all the escalators from floor one to ground were broken, except for one in the far corner. Considered sliding down bannister, felt it would be undignified. Spotted Mum emerging from lift. Finally reached her. Felt maybe mass-murderer car park might have been good option.

There were decorations in the shopping centre. Somewhat naff ones, it looked like half were missing. I am guessing the person sent to find the box of decorations in the loft who was not a great lover of Christmas decorations, had told them, “this is the only box I could find.” I have the same problem in my own house. The decorations were silver shapes and were hung from the high ceilings. At an angle. At least, some were, some were straight. Hard to tell if there was a plan. Maybe they ran out of time, they are clearly not entering any shopping centre decoration competitions this year, if such things exist. Perhaps they had trouble getting from top floor. Am sympathetic.

The problem with shops (well, one of the problems – there are many actually) is that they are too hot. Especially Debenhams. I worked for Debenhams once, before I went to college. We were given blue and white spotty blouses to wear that tied in a bow at the neck and we had to wear navy skirts. I didn’t have a navy skirt so wore a vaguely blue one but no one seemed to mind. It was always too hot even then. I do not find being hot, especially when wearing a heavy winter coat, encourages me to shop. If Mr Debenham is reading this, he might like to take note and turn down the thermostat in his shops.

Anyway, despite being a shopping trip, it was relatively successful. I bought gifts for my nieces and even remembered that one has a birthday right before Christmas. Usually this catches me out and I have to rewrap her Christmas present in birthday paper and then buy something else.

I like Christmas presents actually. Maybe not so much the actual gift, but I love seeing them all wrapped up, lumpy and mysterious. My children still have a stocking, a heap of smaller gifts that they open Christmas eve. Every year now I suggest that they might be too old for this but they tell me it is the “funnest part of Christmas.” Clearly I should buy them some grammar books.

Last Christmas was especially good. I was just a few months post op, so had no idea what I had wrapped, it was an exciting surprise for me too to see them open their presents. It was nearly not so fun for daughter. A couple of days before Christmas, husband asked to check which gifts I had bought (he likes to help each year.) I proudly showed him the stack of wrapped gifts. He asked which one was for daughter, as it wasn’t there. I knew I had bought her a coat but couldn’t actually find it. He enquired if it was the coat I had bought and given her the year before, which would explain why I couldn’t find it – she was probably wearing it. We did a hasty trip to the shops and all was well.

Hope you haven’t frozen yet. Mainly rain here.

Take care,
Anne xxx

PS. I was somewhat perturbed by your postscript. I am assuming that the most precious ornaments go on the back of your tree to ensure they’re safe. I have this year NOT put the Angels you made for me on my tree (because people kept asking why I had ghosts hanging on my tree.) But they took pride of place for many years. Just saying.

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This letter is written in reply to one from my sister.  You can read her reply (to an earlier letter, number 32) at :

 http://ruthdalyauthor.blogspot.ca/2015/12/sisters-should-live-on-same-continent.html

Thank you for reading

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