Better Late Than Never!

Sorry this blog is so late, but it’s been a crazy week, and I have not had a minute to even breathe, let alone write. I went back to work on Monday the 30^th for a ten-hour shift, then worked on New Year’s Eve until 2pm. Leaving work, I charged up town to the cheap shop that sells cleaning, products, toiletries and cosmetics. Why is it that Everything runs out at the same time? I needed laundry and dishwasher tabs, soap, shampoo, cleanser, and toothpaste and we were down to our last toilet roll. Always a dangerous situation to be in. Rushing home, I put away the shopping, gave my car a quick vacuum — it looked like the bottom of a guinea pig cage all strewn with straw and muck — and then dashed to Waitrose to grab the few bits and pieces I hadn’t been able to order from Tesco.

Regular readers will know I didn’t really celebrate Christmas at Christmas. It was Franki’s partner’s family’s turn to have them both, so they’d spent the whole festive season in North Wales. They had a fun time, although Franki politely declined to participate in their family tradition of swimming in the Irish Sea on Boxing Day. Madness! Honestly, who wants to shock their system rigid by plunging into sub-zero water?! No, Boxing Day should be spent bingeing on Christmas chocolate and rubbish TV and playing with your new cool stuff, that’s the proper thing to do.

Anyway, I was driving to Reading to collect them both on New Year’s Day. It was supposed to be the 4^th, but then they went back to Reading sooner than anticipated and I figured the roads would be empty on New Year’s Day as opposed to the first Saturday in the year. I was planning on hitting the shops after New Year and hoovering up all the festive food reduced to clear. But it didn’t quite work out that way.

I got to Waitrose at 2.30pm on New Year’s Eve only to find empty shelves. And I mean empty! Not just of Christmas stuff, but of everything! It was like the land of Egypt after the plague of locusts. People were wandering about looking shellshocked at the lack of anything to buy. I had to compromise mightily. I asked if they had any Christmas puddings left, and the assistant laughed in my face. Crackers? Nope. I searched the aisles in a rising panic realising that my airily made plans to get away with doing Christmas dinner cheap were as empty as the shelves. I got what I could and went home where I jumped in the car, drove to Tesco, collected the big shop I’d ordered, filled the car up with diesel and drove home. Once the stuff was put away, I ordered my Mum’s presents that had been sitting in my Amazon basket waiting for payday. I needed them to give to her on the 4^th. They were all Prime delivery and promised to be here by the 3^rd at the latest, so that was all right.

By now flagging with exhaustion, I had a coffee and set to making a lasagne ready for dinner the next evening. I figured after driving to Reading and back the last thing I would feel like doing was turning round and cooking. With the kitchen smelling lovely, I realised how hungry I was and made myself a nice New Year’s Eve dinner of steak with all the trimmings, watched mindless TV for a bit, and then headed up to bed at nine. I didn’t care about sitting up to see the New Year in, but I did care about not being exhausted and facing a long drive the next day. Especially as the Met Office had issued a severe weather warning promising torrential rain and gale-force winds. Fun.

As we all know, the best-laid plans of mice and Julia are all filed away somewhere. I could not get to sleep because of all the noise the closest the UK gets to a hurricane was making. Trees were thrashing outside, things were banging and rattling, a tin can clanked down the road, and despite the horrendous weather, there were still idiots out there celebrating and even letting off fireworks. Seriously?! It’s blowing a hooey, and you think fireworks are a smart idea?! Numbnuts!

It was a blurry-eyed and tired Julia who had coffee and breakfast the next day, loaded up the car with stuff to go to Reading, and set off at 9am. As I hoped, the roads were empty and the rain was holding off, but oh my, it was windy. Mega strong winds buffeted my little car, and I was fighting to keep it on the road sometimes, but I made very good timing and got to them just after eleven. We unloaded the car, had a quick snack, drink, and toilet break, then loaded up the car with all the stuff going to Suffolk and we were off. The roads were a bit busier than first thing and by now it was pouring with rain, but still, the M25 wasn’t the usual car park, and we sailed through reaching home just after two. We had a quick walk into town to stretch our legs and grab a couple of things and then settled down for a lovely dinner and a quiet evening.

Thursday, Franki and I went to Marks and Spencer to see if we could rectify the Christmas dinner situation. It had suddenly occurred to me that I had five people for Christmas on Saturday and had no idea what we were having. There was nothing in Marks and Spencer either. Lacking inspiration, we wandered the aisles and then looked at each other in despair.

Franki: What are we going to do?

Me: I don’t know. I need to get food. Okay, let’s go home and I’ll see if I can get a click-and-collect slot for tomorrow and we’ll order a leg of lamb and all the trimmings. We all love lamb, so let’s stick to what we know and love.

We went home. I went on the Tesco site, and yes, I could get a click-and-collect slot for 9-10 the next day. I reserved the slot. Then shopped for an entire Christmas dinner. No Christmas puddings though. Oh well. We were going to friends for the afternoon, so I made some pigs in blankets to take — for anyone who doesn’t know, that’s sausages wrapped in bacon — and off we went. We had a great time, although Franki nonstop teased me about what I had bought her for Christmas. This was a bone of contention between us. There had been no list forthcoming from Franki, and we had all agreed to cut down on what we spent on each other. And I did cut down quite considerably, but I already had an incredible gift for Franki. One that I thought was going to achieve me the Mother of the Year Award.

Way back at the beginning of November when we all went up to Chester for Franki and Rys’s graduation, Franki was chatting about all the field trips they were doing and how she could do with a decent pair of walking boots as theirs weren’t adequate. I said that when they came down for Christmas, we could go shopping in the January sales and that would be my Christmas present to them. And yes, I know that’s what was agreed, but hear me out, this then happened. They talked about their course and how much they were both enjoying it and about all the cool equipment they were using in the lab. In particular, they talked about a piece of equipment called an entoball. This is a tiny, highly polished steel ball with a soft pad inserted which sits in a circular cradle and can be rotated. It’s designed to sit under a microscope with the insect specimen pinned to the soft pad. It’s ridiculously simple but infinitely practical. The insect doesn’t get crushed on a slide and as it minimises handling there’s less chance of damaging fragile specimens.

I’d love to have one myself, Franki said, but it’s impossible to buy even if you are a lab or a university, let alone just a private individual. Even the one we use at Reading is a knockoff one that our lecturer made himself. Entoballs are a myth, like unicorns. I don’t know anyone who’s even seen a real one.

Hmm, I thought and tucked the name away in my brain. The following week, I began my research. Tracking down manufacturers of laboratory and microscopic equipment in the UK, I began a campaign of email sending, pleading, and downright begging for one of them to sell me an entoball. Most said no. I persisted with the ones who wavered. To cut a long story short, after an intensive charm offensive against the most promising one, the CEO of the company agreed to sell me one at a price that made me blink and swallow hard. But I was committed now, so I bought it and a few days later it arrived. And it was tiny. I mean, I know Franki had said it was small, but this was teeny tiny. To be honest, I was a little underwhelmed. But it was here, I had it, and almost all my budget had been blown on it. It couldn’t be returned. I put it away safely and waited for Christmas hoping I’d done the right thing, that it hadn’t just been an I want a pony moment and that this was something Franki would love and be able to use not just for her Masters, but for her career going forward.

I had completely forgotten about the boots and my promise. Until Christmas, when Franki reminded me, rather forcibly, that it had been decided, and boots were expected. I didn’t know what to do. Decent walking boots are expensive, even in the sales, and I couldn’t afford them on top of everything I’d bought for them plus all the food and drink I had to buy. To be honest, Franki did give me a hard time when they found out boots were off the table because I’d bought something else and of course, I couldn’t say anything because I didn’t want to spoil the surprise. For three days I had to endure the teasing, all the time hugging the secret to myself. Not even their partner knew what I’d bought. Not because I didn’t trust them not to keep quiet, but because if Franki found out they knew then the pressure would have been intense and Rys might have cracked and at the very least, have dropped some hints. So, I kept silent, but it was hard to sit and take all the comments.

Anyway, Friday was our Christmas Eve. A quick trip to the shops for last-minute pieces. Honestly, it’s one meal, why does it cost so much? Then Franki and Rys went to visit Grandad and I made a start on cooking dinner. Yes, I know we weren’t having it until the next day, but as we were having a leg of lamb it meant I could slow roast it the day before, carve it into a casserole dish, make gravy using the juices and cover the meat, then the next day it could sit in the oven warming through until we were ready for it. I also premade cauliflower cheese, prepared the sprouts and carrots, wrapped the pigs in blankets, and parboiled and part-roasted the potatoes. In short, practically cooked the meal in advance. I wanted to enjoy Christmas Day, not be stuck in the kitchen for all of it. I also laid the table and made sure all the crockery and glasses we needed were present, correct, and clean. Returning from Grandad’s, Franki and Rys made a detour via Iceland (the shop, not the country) and managed to source the last Christmas pudding in the county. Huzzah, Christmas was saved. We had dinner, watched Red One and Father Christmas is Back, and then went to bed.

Now, remember those presents I’d ordered from Amazon for my mum? Then ones that had a definite delivery date of the 3^rd. Friday morning, I had an email from Amazon that two out of the four items were arriving before 8pm that day. Then I had another email saying the other two would arrive before 9pm. Okaaay, bit weird they were splitting them up but still delivering probably at the same time. Midafternoon, a delivery came containing two of the items. We waited for the other two things. Nothing came. At 9pm I received an email stating oopsie, your delivery now isn’t coming until the 6^th. What?! The 6^th?! No bloody good then, Amazon. And why have you been promising delivery all day only to change your mind at the last minute? In a panic, it was decided that Franki and Rys would rush uptown the next day to buy the two items so I could last-minute wrap and get them under the tree before my parents arrived at 10.30. When the Amazon parcel arrived, it would have to be returned as delivered too late.

The next morning, our Christmas Day, Franki and Rys dashed up town whilst I got on with “stuff”. They came back triumphantly bearing the two items, which were wrapped and put under the tree. Waiting for my parents to arrive, the doorbell went, and it was Amazon. Yep, you’ve guessed it, delivering the two things that weren’t supposed to come until Monday. Uggh. Then my parents arrived. Prosecco was opened and Christmas began.

I know what you all want to know. How did Franki react upon opening the entoball? I made sure it was opened last. I had said I wasn’t doing stockings this year, but, of course, I was, so they both had stockings full of small and thoughtful items to open first. Then there were a few main presents, including some presents for both. The gorgeous set of steak knives was very much appreciated. I also bought Franki a beautiful book nook kit because when we went to that huge garden centre in the summer to buy my birthday plants, they’d had a whole display of them. Franki oohed and ahhed over them, then decided they were too expensive so didn’t buy one. I remembered though and bought one of an old-fashioned library for them. Then it was time to open the last present. It was a big box. Franki opened it to find another box. They opened that. Inside was another box, and then another. The last box was one they’d received something in last Christmas — I tend to hoard boxes because they’re like, really good boxes — and she opened it. My heart was in my mouth. When the final box was opened, the packaging was pulled aside and the entoball revealed in all its tiny splendour, their faces were priceless. You’d honestly have thought I’d found the Holy Grail or at least a unicorn. A picture was taken and posted onto their course WhatsApp group to generate suitable envy. The boots have not been mentioned again, and I think my stock has risen somewhat. They are both stunned that I managed to acquire one. Apparently, their course tutor has been trying and failing to get one for ages.

We had dinner — including the pudding — and it was delicious. Afterwards, we went for a brief walk to shake the food down. Came back and played music and games and then later the cheeseboard came out. My parents’ taxi came for them at 9.30 and we cleaned up and went to bed, all exhausted from four very busy days.

And now it’s Boxing Day (aka Sunday 5^th January) and I am writing to you. Apologies again for the lateness of this blog, but when did I have the time to write? I’m back to work tomorrow for two days, then on Wednesday we will visit Grandma as it’s her birthday, and in the evening, we are off to the Pantomime. Another surprise for Franki and Rys. We weren’t going to go because it is so expensive, but my parents bought their tickets for them as a present. It’s Aladdin this year and I’ve been told it’s excellent so we’re all looking forward to it.

As it’s my first blog of 2025 I was going to do a round-up of the past year but I’m almost up to 3000 words already so maybe I should save that for next time. Oh, and one more piece of news. It’s been six long weeks since my KDP account broke down. Despite numerous emails from Amazon reassuring me they were doing everything in their power to fix it when I last checked just after Christmas it was still not working. Deciding to put a pin in it until after the hectic festive season, I was going to send a terse email on Thursday enquiring what happens if they can’t fix it. Deciding to check one last time before hitting send, I went to my KDP account and to my delighted surprise it appears to be working again. Of course, I haven’t had time to do anything about it — that will have to wait until next week — but I am so relieved it’s been fixed. Now I will be able to finally publish the new hardback copies and people can finally buy them — now that Christmas is over and no one has any money, I’m sure they will rush to order a copy — or not.

Anyway, Happy New Year everyone. I hope that 2025 is a better year for all of us. I am hoping for a bit more calmness in my life. 2024 was a year of hard work and endless obstacles to overcome, some smooth sailing would be much appreciated.

Take care.

Julia Blake

An Easter Mouse Tail

If you celebrate Easter, then I wish you a peaceful and happy four-day weekend with your family. If chocolate – lots of it – is your thing, then I wish you all the creamy yummy goodness. If you don’t celebrate Easter then I wish you a great Sunday. And if, like me, you work in retail and Easter Sunday is a single day off in a sea of long hours and even longer shifts, then take a deep breath, enjoy your one day off, and brace yourself for going back tomorrow.

Sorry, this blog is a little late this week. I have worked some long and weird shifts this week and simply have not had the time to sit down and write the blog until Sunday morning. Besides, I figured most people would be enjoying the long weekend so will be having a bit of a lay-in.

Work has been strange since we last spoke. As you may have gathered, I have become increasingly discontented with working every single weekend and every bank holiday, and I am more than done with working on Boxing Day. The pressure of the job is increasing as unrealistic targets are imposed, the recession is beginning to bite, and sales are harder and harder to achieve. I want to start a little Airbnb business to supplement my meagre income, but because my shifts are so unpredictable it’s impossible. People sometimes need to book accommodation months in advance so I must know which days I’m at work – so can block those days out – and which I can safely take bookings for.

The “finger in the wind” nature of my shifts makes this impossible. I am given a four-week shift pattern at the beginning of each month but don’t know my working days any further ahead than that. A friend asked why I couldn’t take bookings on workdays, but honestly, I’ve looked at it from every angle and it’s simply not workable. Guests might need to arrive at any point during the day and I need to be there to let them in, show them the room and the facilities, and give them a key. Yes, I know I could hide the key somewhere or install a key safe, but I don’t like either of those ideas and don’t want a total stranger letting themselves into my home when I’m not there.

I also need to be there for when they wish to check out – to ensure nothing is being taken with them that shouldn’t be and get the key back. Again, this could be at any time during the day. I think it’s the whole “having a stranger in my home when I’m not there” scenario that’s worrying me. Whatever the reason, I am decided I can only let the room on days I am going to be home. And then we’re back to the whole unpredictability of my shifts issue.

Then there’s working every single weekend. It used not to be such an issue but over the past year, I have attended numerous book fairs, sales, and comic cons. Not only are they quite successful for me, but I enjoy them. They take place at weekends. I work every weekend. Do you see my problem? Of course, the events are not every weekend and up until now, my accommodating boss has tried to rota me so if an event is taking place on a Sunday I work on Saturday. I have also used all my annual leave to cover a few whole weekend events. But … and now we come to the crux of the matter, and the reason why I am now feeling something needs to change.

My boss dropped a bombshell two weeks ago and announced that he’d handed in his notice. To say I’m shocked would be an understatement. I genuinely thought he was such a company man that if you cut him in half he would have the company logo all the way through him like a stick of rock. But no, the lockdowns made him realise how much of his young daughter’s life he was missing out on by working all weekend and every bank holiday. He’s had enough. He’s burnt out. And I don’t blame him. It’s not a job for someone with a family. It’s demanding, the hours are long and very anti-social. Working Boxing Day destroys Christmas not only for the worker but for their family. So, I applaud and understand his decision.

But, it has made me stop and think and evaluate my situation.

I’ve known for some time I am merely working to live. That my work/life balance is skewed. Whilst I had a sympathetic boss who tried to help and was lenient about my requests for changes in my shift pattern the situation was just about bearable. But, that boss will be leaving very soon. It’s left me wondering what to do.

We have no idea what our new boss will be like. A dyed-in-the-wool stickler for rules who will make me work all weekend/every weekend? Maybe. We simply don’t know. And it’s that uncertainty that’s making me question everything. Lots of hard thinking has been going on. What am I going to do? I don’t know, is the honest answer. Perhaps the new boss will be even more accommodating, but that won’t solve every problem or change the fact that I think I’m done with retail.

I will keep you posted – and if anyone in the Bury St Edmunds area knows of a part-time job with either no weekend work or is flexible enough to allow for the weekends I am attending shows to be taken off – please let me know.

In other work news, I attended a roadshow in Luton about the new ranges the company are introducing. I don’t think I’ve ever been to Luton before. I know I don’t want to go there again. Sorry, people who live in Luton. I’m sure some parts of the city are lovely – and the roadshow venue was very nice – but the rest of the place looked horrible, and the roads were a joke. Potholes bordering on sinkhole dimensions threatened to rip out the suspension on my boss’s car. Coming home, his Satnav threw a temper tantrum. Instead of taking us the most direct route down the motorway, it detoured us off into the deepest darkest countryside and through tiny hamlets and villages called Little Snoring Under Snot and other such names. The lanes got narrower, the potholes got bigger, the language in the car got bluer, and I swear at one point I heard banjos playing.

Eventually, we popped out onto a motorway and were able to find our way home. I arrived back with barely forty minutes to throw some dinner down my throat, freshen up, and then charge across town for the Poetry and Prose Evening I was attending to celebrate the launch of a fellow Writers of Bury & Beyond author’s book.

The following Sunday was the first Maker’s Market in the Market Cross. Originally, six authors were booked but three dropped out last minute due to Covid and other illnesses, so instead of sharing a six-foot table I had the whole thing to myself.

Bring more books, the organiser suggested.

That’s all well and good, but there’s only so much I can fit on my little trolley. I took more promotional material and bookmarks to fill the gaps with and set off, hopeful of a good day. It was sluggish though. The sun was shining for almost the first time this year, so I guess many people had gone out for the day. I did despair by lunchtime when I had only sold one book and not covered my pitch fee, but the afternoon picked up and in the end, I sold £42 worth of books. Not brilliant, but at least all my costs were covered plus I spoke to lots of people and handed out lots of cards, so you never know.

The next event is the Indie Author Book Fair in St Ives on the 30^th of April. I am hopeful that will be a more successful occasion. It looks like it’s going to be quite a large affair so will hopefully be well attended. I am going with three other Writers of Bury & Beyond members and was lucky enough to secure a book reading slot. I’m going to read from Black Ice because people seem to respond very positively to it.

And now we come to the mouse. Ah, yes. The mouse. On Friday morning I came downstairs to get ready for work. To my surprise, my cat was lying in the lobby by the washing machine instead of her usual spot asleep on the rocking chair. I petted her, then disappeared into the bathroom to have a shower.

Lathered up with shampoo, I heard a loud thump on the bathroom door and stopped to listen. Skittles? I called. An answering miaow reassured me that it wasn’t an axe murderer but was my stupid cat – probably playing with a shoelace dangling from the shoe rack opposite the door.

I wandered from the bathroom wrapped in a towel to put the kettle on and found the cat right outside the door peering into the shoe rack. A suspicion stirred. Carefully, I pulled the rack out and a fricking mouse leapt two feet in the air and hurdled over the shoe rack. I yelped. The cat pounced. The mouse shot back under the rack into the corner, followed by the cat.

Catch it! I yelled. Kill it! Kill it!

I know that sounds very “Roman Emperor bloodthirsty of me” and like I am afraid of mice. I’m not. I think mice are sweet and adorable – in the right environment – and my kitchen at 6:30am is not the right environment.

The cat failed to catch the mouse which shot under the shoe rack, into the bathroom, and straight under the tub. Bugger. Not sure what to do, I had to finish getting dry and dressed knowing it was only a foot away from my feet. I rummaged through the drawers and found a mousetrap from the last time the cat remembered her hunter roots. I baited it with some ham and set it down by the tub. Closing the bathroom door, I left the trap to do its job, confident the mouse would be dead before I had to go to work.

Half an hour later I checked, the ham was gone, and the trap had not sprung. Damn it. I cut a piece of cheese and wedged it onto the bait spike and put the trap down again. I finished getting ready for work and just before I left, looked in the bathroom. The cheese was gone, and the trap was still sitting there. What the actual…?

This time I jammed half a grape onto the spike, thinking it would make the mouse pull on it and spring the trap. I went to work. All day, I wondered what I would find when I got home.

No grape. No dead mouse. The trap sitting there.

Aggh, I shoved more cheese on. Nope. The mouse ate that as well. This mouse must be seriously loving this hotel and planning on giving it five stars on trip advisor.

Before going to bed I pierced a hole in a frozen piece of mango and shoved it firmly onto the bait spike. Got you, I chortled, this will surely make you tug firmly enough to spring the trap.

I went to bed. Early in the morning, I stumbled downstairs to go to the loo. Sitting there bleary-eyed there was a flash of movement beside me – and the mouse ran straight over my feet and back under the tub! I was so shocked I nearly peed on the floor. I examined the trap. Half the mango was gone, and the trap still not sprung.

Now thinking I had a defective trap or a very clever mouse, I got dressed and walked to B&Q and enquired about mousetraps. I asked if they had a humane one because I had formed a grudging admiration for Peter – the mouse by now had a name – and didn’t want to kill him. Nope, they didn’t sell them. I bought a box-like contraption that promised to lure the mouse in, kill him with one quick snap, and then seal the box ready for me to dispose of his corpse in the bin. Sorry, Peter, but you’re going down.

By the time I got back, Peter had taken the other half of the mango – cheeky bugger.

I tried to figure out the instructions which were in every language but English. I baited it with cheese and went to work. Surely, I thought, when I get home it will be to find Peter dead in the box and that will be an end to it. Nope, you’ve guessed it, the cheese was gone and there was no dead Peter.

I baited it again – this time with ham – and went to bed.

So, what did I find this morning? Yep, that’s right. Peter still lives. This mouse must be approaching obesity by now with all this fine dining he’s doing at my expense. The bathroom is also starting to smell of mouse. I want him gone now.

I’ve jammed a piece of cheese in the far end of the box trap so he will have to stand on the trigger pad and tug at it. That was an hour ago. Hold on, I will go and peep at the trap … Nope, still intact with the bait there. As of now, Peter still lives.

Now, I know many of you will be rooting for Peter – I know I would be – but I can’t have a mouse living under my bathtub. Mice pee and poop constantly and it smells. Also, if I do get my Airbnb up and running I can’t expect guests to share the bathroom with a mouse. Can you imagine the reviews? I did try to buy a humane trap because I planned to take him to work with me – why yes, it is “Bring your mouse to work day”, did you not get the memo? – and set him loose in the big patch of woodland behind the store. But B&Q didn’t sell them, and I didn’t have time to go anywhere else. So, sorry, but what can I do? It’s not like mice are an endangered species, I’m not setting a trap for a white rhino – jeez, imagine one of them under your tub?

I will let you know the conclusion to this mouse tale next time.

In the meantime, I am going to stop here because I am out of things to tell you and as it’s now 9am you will all be wondering where the blog is.

Happy Easter Everyone.

Julia Blake

It’s the Thought that Counts…

By the time you read this on Sunday morning, there will only be three more sleeps until Christmas Day. Are you ready? Or are you the sort who likes to live dangerously and leave everything until the last minute? I’m more or less ready. Sadly, I have to work today but only until 4pm and then I’ll be off for a whole three days! Ooh, being spoilt here, the joys of working in retail.

As I work Boxing Day, the decision was made to bring everything forward a day, so therefore Monday is our Christmas Eve, Tuesday is our Christmas Day and Wednesday will be our Boxing Day. It just makes Christmas a bit nicer for me. I’ve had to work the last two Boxing Days and it really puts a serious crimp in the festive revelry. To be constantly checking my watch, to be aware that I have to turn up at work next day on time and sober, ready for one of the busiest days in our retail year. By shifting everything forward a day, I can enjoy myself as much as I want on Christmas Day (Tuesday) and still have Boxing Day (Wednesday) to rest and recover.

We’ve tried to cut down on presents this year. Last year I went totally overboard with everyone and ended up with a debt I didn’t finish paying off until this November. Which is ridiculous and a bit obscene, so my parents and Miss F all agreed we’d not buy presents at all, although obviously I would buy some little things for Miss F to open on Christmas Day. But then her phone broke, as regular readers of my blog will know, so we got her a new phone on my Argos interest free card and I will be paying £200 towards it.

I’ve been thinking a lot about Christmas presents this week, about things I’ve given and received over the years. About the great presents I’ve had, the not so great and the downright bizarre. Buying presents is something I pride myself on being particularly good at, in that I try hard to think about what the person would really like. If you know someone, then it should be easy to imagine what would give them joy to receive and then buy that. Of course, the absolute best presents are those that the recipient had no idea they wanted until they open it, and then they love it. Sadly, all too often, people give what they would like to receive, not what the person they’re giving to wants.

I’ve lost count of the smelly body lotion sets, scented candles which smelt like furniture polish, tins of biscuits, slippers and other such stuff I’ve received over the years, all of which I’ve politely said thank you for and then put away ready to be regifted. It is particularly galling when you’ve invested a lot of time, money and effort in a wonderful gift for someone that they love, and in return you receive a tin of biscuits! Speaking of giving and not receiving, are Christmas cards now a thing of the past? This year I’ve handed out all my cards to the normal people and a large number of them have turned around and said “Oh, we’re not doing cards this year”.

Not that long ago, I needed four of those long card holders to contain all the Christmas cards I received, this year I’m down to barely filling two. I don’t know if that’s a reflection of the waning popularity of Christmas cards or perhaps the waning popularity of me. Either way, it is a little sad. I love giving and receiving cards, but, as I save all my cards until the next year and use them as a guide as to who gets a card from me, it means all those who didn’t bother giving me a card this year won’t get one from me next Christmas.

And then there’s presents. Always a tricky subject, the buying and giving of presents. When clear budgets are set and stuck to it helps to alleviate inequality in spending, so long as all parties stick to the budget. I have on occasion been told a £10 budget which I have rigidly stuck to, only to have a gift clearly worth a lot more than that presented to me, making me feel cheap, mean and ultimately resentful I’ve been made to feel that way. I know that’s not the spirit of Christmas, but it is the spirit of most of us.

And of course, I’ve also experienced it the other way around, when I have given a lovely gift which is smack on the nose, or maybe a little over, budget wise, only to receive a gift in return that is clearly lacking in thought and value. I’m not that hard to buy for and if you’re really stuck, then a book voucher to spend on new books is always a winner.

Sometimes, I wonder if my friends and family know me at all, based on some of the gifts I have received. I remember one Christmas, a very long time ago, I had a big Christmas Eve party and all my friends had brought their gifts to me and each other to open by the tree. Lovely, thoughtful, wonderful gifts came out of brightly packaged boxes and we were all thrilled, until I opened the present from one of my closest friends.

You know when you’re opening a present and someone says “Oh, it’s nothing special” but it is and it’s lovely, well, this wasn’t one of those times. She said, “it’s nothing special” and it really, really, wasn’t. It was a basket of an assortment of Mrs Bridges pickles, jams and chutneys – for your 25 year old best friend? Bearing in mind, my gift to her had been tickets to see a West End Show in London, it seemed a little unbalanced and lead to a rather awkward moment, and, I won’t lie, a cooling of our friendship. It wasn’t so much the disparity in spend, although she earned a lot more than me so could well afford the pre-agreed budget, it was more the lack of thought that hurt.

Another friend for every birthday and Christmas for ten years, always insisted on buying me an article of clothing. Now, clothing is a tricky thing to buy for someone. You need to be very, very sure of sizes, tastes and fit before attempting to buy anything more complicated than socks or a scarf for someone, and always make sure you give them the receipt. But this friend was confident she knew me well enough after all our years of friendship. She didn’t.

Every time a soft, squishy parcel was handed to me my heart would sink, wondering what awful thing she’d got me this time. A teeny tiny denim mini skirt that would barely cover my arse. A dreadful white frilly blouse that looked like your Great Aunt Nelly’s net curtains and was so itchy no one could wear it longer than two minutes. A tarty, off the shoulder, black sequin top that made me shudder to look at it. A peach chiffon top that washed all the colour from my skin.

All clothes that she would wear, but not clothes that I would ever even give wardrobe space to. She was making the classic mistake of buying what she liked, rather than thinking about all the clothes she’d seen me wear over the years and realising that white isn’t my colour and I don’t do short, tarty apparel, it’s just not me. There was never a receipt included and usually she’d ripped all the tags off so I couldn’t even exchange. On the rare occasions a tag was left intact, I would take it back to the shop in question only to find that she’d bought it in the sale, and it had an exchange value of £1.50.

All too often with buying presents for people, it’s the “what the heck do we buy them” that causes problems, not the actual buying and wrapping. Most people nowadays have enough money to buy themselves whatever they want, so Christmas is no longer a chance to give people things they really need but couldn’t justify buying themselves. Now more than ever, presents are about the thought you have put into them. My ex-in-laws (the outlaws) are a good example of this. They live in a tiny retirement flat, crammed in with all their belongings they simply cannot give houseroom to “stuff”. There is nothing they want, need or desire, so buying presents for them was always a challenge.

Then, a few years ago, I hit upon the idea of making them a hamper and wondered why I hadn’t thought about it sooner. Now, you can of course, buy hampers ready-made, but they are always hellishly expensive and always contain a ton of stuff that you know the recipient won’t like or want. So, what I do is simply go around the supermarket and buy about £30 worth of food and drink I know they will use and enjoy, but I buy a nice version of it – Twinings English Breakfast tea instead of a value pack – that sort of thing. I then make a hamper from an old, sturdy box and arrange everything neatly. It looks great and is full of things they will use, things that won’t clutter their flat, well, not for long. It was a huge success and ever since that’s what I’ve done.

My mum, bless her, has had one or two spectacular fails with present buying over the years. When Miss F was young obviously my mother would buy her things to give to me for Christmas, and Miss F would run into my room on Christmas morning, her stocking clutched in one hand and her present to me in the other. More excited about watching me open mine, she would eagerly wait with quivering anticipation as I tore the paper off. One year, I opened the beautiful package to find a tube of foundation for coloured skin tones.

I was stunned. So stunned, I had to phone my mother there and then.

“You’ve bought me foundation?”

“Yes, I knew you were running short and it’s so expensive.”

“Ok, so nice thought, but Mum, this foundation is for coloured skin tones.”

“Well, that’s alright isn’t it?”

“No, Mum, it’s for black skin.”

“Can’t you still use it?”

“Have you seen the colour of me, Mum? I’d look like the lovechild of Judith Chalmers and David Dickinson!”

For those of you unfamiliar with this pair, they were TV presenters well known for their love of fake tan and the rather alarming tangerine colour of their skin. After Christmas, I related the tale to a friend of mine who is black, she roared with laughter and offered to buy it off me. In the end we did a swap, she gave me the bottle of rather nice red wine her work had given her which she didn’t want, and I gave her the foundation.

Another year I was very excited to see three, book shaped presents with my name on under my parents’ tree. In excitement, I ripped the paper off the first one to find a book on hedgerow foraging. Surprised, I looked at it, then opened the second parcel, only to find another book on hedgerow foraging. Sensing a theme, I wasn’t too surprised when I opened the third parcel to find yet another book on hedgerow foraging. I looked at my mum.

“Umm, why?”

“Well, I know you’re into that sort of thing.”

“I go blackberry picking once a year and I don’t need three books to tell me how to do it.”

I sold all three books on eBay in the new year and bought something I actually wanted, but are you beginning to see why I don’t get very excited about Christmas presents?

My ex-husband always bought me things he wanted himself, and although he did stop short of buying me a power drill, there was a camera I didn’t want or need that he then took as his own, DVD boxsets of shows I’d never heard of, and things for the kitchen I didn’t want that then languished in the cupboard after one use when he found it wasn’t as much fun to use as the ads had suggested.

One year, in desperation, I sat down and wrote a very long and comprehensive list of things I really wanted and needed. Even that didn’t work. Whilst most people did buy off list, my mother is a free spirit who won’t be told what to do so instead bought me frumpy slippers (I hate slippers, they make my feet too hot) and a large gift pack of Marks & Spencer Magnolia body stuff (it smells like cat pee on me and makes me itch).

One year, she gave me two tops, two lovely tops, perfect for me, there was just one problem.

“Why have you bought me these?”

“Well, when I saw them, I could just see you in them.”

“There’s a reason for that. You have! I already own these exact same tops.”

Then there was the year my poor mum forgot to tag any presents. That was an interesting Christmas Day. Like some kind of festive Russian roulette, we’d all choose a tag-less present from under the tree, shake it, squeeze it, and try to guess what might be in it. I ended up with a tie, an XXL hoody and a cordless screwdriver. Once all the presents were opened, we then had a Swap Shop session.

One year, we had a party the week before Christmas. A lovely evening, it was all very festive and a huge success and, as a friend was leaving, she put her arm around me, thanked me for a wonderful evening and told me she’d slipped us a little something under the tree. I thanked her, we wished each other Merry Christmas and she left. For the rest of that week we couldn’t figure out what on earth the disgusting smell was in the house. I bleached bins, we cleaned drains, we moved furniture to see if the cat had left a dead mouse anywhere, but no matter what we did this foul smell prevailed.

Then it was Christmas Day, and I lit scented candles everywhere to drown out the smell. We opened our gifts, including the one from my friend, only to discover it was the ripest, stinkiest, smelliest piece of Stilton cheese! In a box, under our tree, in a warm lounge, for a week! Needless to say, it went straight in the bin. I asked her what on earth she’d been thinking of. Yes, lovely present for my ex-husband (I don’t like Stilton, so again, lack of thought) but it needed to go into the fridge, not be slipped under the tree for a week. She got quite shirty at my lack of gratitude.

Did anyone make cherry brandy as I showed you a few weeks ago? Well, if you did, then you need to be bottling it up this week. It’s really simple. All you need to do is strain the fruit infused brandy through a linen or muslin lined sieve into a large jug and then pour them into clean, screw top bottles. You can use the bottles you fermented it in but obviously you’ll need to rinse them out first. The four 75cl bottles I made was enough to decant back into one 75cl bottle and then three 40cl bottles which I then labelled and gave as Christmas presents. I had a sneaky taste and it’s lovely, very warm and Christmassy.

By the time I blog next week it will all be over. All the work, expense, stress and preparation that goes into one day will be done for another year. I hope you all have an amazing Christmas Day, and if you don’t celebrate Christmas then please let me extend well wishes to you and your family.

Thank you for once again taking the time to read my ramblings, and I’ll see you on the other side.

Merry Christmas

Julia Blake

Tis the Season for… Presents, Party Frocks and Panic!

Another week closer to Christmas and I’ve been on holiday this week, but, as usual, my crazy busy life doesn’t allow for much in the way of resting, and this week has been purely for me to catch up on Christmas preparations, as I only get three days off over Christmas itself.

I am just about ready now. Monday was spent getting those last few presents for the people I am buying for. An aunt and uncle who always buy for Miss F and for whom I always struggle to buy. What do you get for people you don’t know very well, who have no interests or hobbies you know about and don’t seem to want or need anything? Answer, a delightful set of four placemats and matching coasters in duck egg blue with adorable funny ducks on. I mean, who wouldn’t want them?

Tuesday, I had to go into my freelance job for a few hours in the morning, then I went to the supermarket and did THE shop. It wasn’t too crowded, but it still took me almost two hours. Considering that was a normal weekly shop, the contents of a couple of hampers, all the drinks and food we’ll need over the Christmas period and a mega cheeseboard which is my contribution to Christmas dinner, I didn’t think that was too bad.

Wednesday, I went to visit an author friend of mine who lives nearby and had a lovely long lunch and chat with her. Then Thursday morning I went shopping for an outfit for my works Christmas do which was on Saturday night and also find something for Christmas Day. Now, I’m not great with clothes shopping. Well, when you’re (a) only 5’ and (b) have womanly curves and (c) no money, trying to find something that (a) fits (b) looks alright, and (c) doesn’t cost a fortune, is a real challenge. I hate the whole process as well, the trailing around in overheated shops, picking things off the rails and looking at them, clueless as to whether they’ll suit you and wondering if it’s worth the bother of queuing for a changing cubicle and then having the hassle of stripping to try it on.

I tend to look all round the shop first and then try on a great armful of all the potential candidates. Seriously, I only want to do this once! I really wanted to look nice for my staff Christmas do, I wear a uniform for work and the rest of the time look like a bag lady who got dressed in the dark, so for once, I wanted to look and feel feminine and, well, put together.

I had my heart set on a dress. Now, dresses and I are not really a thing – see points (a) (b) and (c) above, but this year I wanted to wear something different from my usual trousers and top combo. Then, in almost the first shop I tried, I found it. A sleeveless shift dress, fully lined, in a lovely velvety material. It was subtle and pretty, with a softly muted pattern of blue, burgundy, reds and yellows, the overall effect of which was like an old, worn Turkish rug.

With a bubble of excitement rising inside me, I took it to the changing room. To my delight it fitted, but I wasn’t sure if it FITTED, if you know what I mean. It’s so hard to make a rational decision cramped into a cubicle with your hair a windblown bird’s nest, no make-up on and your jeans yanked down to your knees. I thought it looked okay, it was beautiful, so I decided to take a chance. Buying a long-sleeved burgundy body to wear underneath – my days of going out with bare arms being a thing of the past – I hurried home in time to meet another friend for our pre-Christmas lunch.

Friday, I ran Miss F out to her work placement, answered a few emails, booked a taxi for Christmas Eve (£15 to get us home at 11.30pm, bargain!) and then dashed to Marks & Spencer to grab a pair of burgundy tights to go with my beautiful new Christmas frock. Rushing through the ladieswear department, I spotted a rack of new in jeans and stopped to have a quick look.

Now, there are only four different types of jeans I can wear – bootcut, slouch, boyfriend and sometimes slim, depending on the cut. Forget all the others, and especially forget the torture of skinny fit jeans. Why, oh why, are they called that? When they neither fit nor make you look skinny. But the stores have decided skinny and super skinny (really?! Have they seen the size of the average British woman?!) are the style of jeans we all want and so the shops are full of them. Seriously, I mean rammed with them, to the extent it’s as if the other cuts no longer exist.

I glanced over the racks. Sure enough, skinny, skinny, super skinny, ankle grazer skinny, high rise skinny, low rise skinny, mid-rise skinny – you get the point. But then suddenly, one lone rack of slim fit tucked away right at the end. They’d already been plundered. Desperate women like me had clearly descended on them like a plague of locusts and ransacked the choicest sizes. With a sinking heart I rattled through them. Nope. My size wasn’t there. Slowly I went through again, this time ignoring the size on the hanger and checking the sizes inside the jeans themselves. It’s rare, but it does happen that sometimes a size will be incorrectly put back on the wrong hanger. Yes! I crowed with delight. I was in luck, there was one pair of slim fit jeans in my size lurking on a size 20 hanger.

What to do? I was on my way to a coffee morning with the Suffolk Authors and didn’t have time to try them on. Luckily, Marks & Spencer have a brilliant returns policy, so I knew there’d be no issue with bringing them back if they didn’t fit. I grabbed them, just as another woman who looked about my size suddenly discovered the rack, and, with a gasp of hope, began rattling the hangers.

I legged it towards the nearest till, just in case it ended in a smackdown. On the way, I passed a rack of gorgeous “going out” blouses. Silky soft, with a bright red base colour and a pattern of large golden dahlias, they were beautiful. The pair of jeans I was holding were a dusky black and the blouse would go perfectly with them. Not stopping to think, I grabbed one my size, figuring having two outfits for the whole Christmas period was not too extravagant, not really.

Friday was its usual busy frantic rush, so I didn’t get time to try on the fruits of my shopping expeditions until Saturday morning. Miss F was home getting ready to go to work, so I asked if she’d have a look and pass judgement, on which one I should wear that evening for the staff Christmas do. Carefully, without removing any of the tags, I tried on the dress first. Burgundy body suit underneath, burgundy tights smoothed on, knee high boots zipped up. Nervously, I went down to get her approval.

She looked at me. Her eyebrows went up and her mouth pursed. She was silent.

“Well?”

“Umm, perhaps if you wore a pair of spanx underneath?”

“I am wearing a pair of spanx underneath,” I informed her through gritted teeth.

She paused and pulled another face, and I could see her urge to be honest warring with her desire to be kind.

“It makes me look fat, doesn’t it?”

“Well, not so much fat, as… chunky.”

And that was it, with that one word – chunky – she’d completely killed any love I had for the dress. Dispirited, I trailed back upstairs to change into Plan B. The jeans fitted perfectly, good quality ones, they hugged where they should, held in what I wanted them to, and flattened what I needed them to, but the blouse… it was ridiculously large and billowy and the sleeves flapped halfway down my hands!

Duly, I went to show Miss F and another face was pulled.

“You look like a kid dressing up in her mother’s clothes.”

Better than chunky, I suppose, but still not good and I was now left in the terrible position of having gone from having two outfits, to having none! Something had to be done. Assessing the situation, I felt if I merely went down a size in the blouse that would solve all the problems and have the added bonus of making me feel better. There had been dozens of blouses in Marks & Spencer only the morning before, so I was confident of being able to simply swap one size for the next one down.

Quickly, I got changed and put the dress and blouse in a bag, along with the appropriate receipts, and scuttled up town – thankful that we only lived a couple of minutes walk away – and took the dress back first, no problem.

Fully committed to the jeans and blouse outfit now, I trawled the shops and found black ankle boots with gold zips, a black belt with a gold buckle, a very useful sized black bag with gold trimmings and amazing dangly black and gold earrings. Then I reached Marks & Spencer and hurried to where two racks of those blouses had hung just the day before. They weren’t there. Quickly searching, my heart rising in panic, I finally located a few tucked behind a horrible brick red shirt. There were only four left. A size 6, a size 8, a size 20 and the same size I’d already bought.

Bugger! Now desperate, I located an assistant, who got panicky with me when I explained the situation and set off to check the stock levels, just in case one was left hanging outside a changing room somewhere. There wasn’t. We looked at each other. A lady about my age, she was clearly feeling my pain and that helped a bit, misery really does love company. Trying to be helpful, she set off on a scavenger hunt around the shop, suggesting lots of different tops but none of them were what I wanted, and the few that were, the sizes had been picked through so I was left with two choices – either lose, or gain, half my body weight by that evening!

I’d like to take this opportunity to send a plea to women’s clothing stores. You know which are the most popular sizes, so please, stock up on those ones! Let’s face it, even if you do have stock left to go into the after Christmas sales, you’re more likely to sell items in the sizes most women are, than the freakishly small and large ones.

Finally, we found a blouse very similar in cut and look to the red and gold one, but in black and gold. Again, only stupid sizes were left but there was one in the exact same size as the blouse I was still clutching. We looked at each other again.

“It’s the same cut as the original one, so will that mean it won’t fit either?”

“I don’t know, but it’s worth a try.”

She was right, it was worth a try, so into the changing room I trotted. Was it a perfect fit? Not particularly. Will it do? Yes, I bought it. Time was ticking by and I didn’t have the luxury of being picky. The same price as the original blouse, it was a straight exchange, Funnily enough, on the way out of the shop I passed the racks of jeans and noticed of the slim fit ones there were only a scant few left – sizes 6, 8, 20 and 24.

On the way home, I found a gold and black choker style necklace to complete the look, and I’ve even been to the hairdressers and had my hair styled into an elaborate up-do. But it’s blowing a force ten gale out there and it fell apart a bit just on the walk home. Rain is threatened for the evening and it’s a ten-minute walk to the restaurant. Will my hair survive? I very much doubt it, but there’s nothing I can do about it other than give it a good blast of hairspray and hope for the best. And, by the time I’ve had a couple of glasses of free prosecco, I probably won’t give a damn.

Why is it that clothes shopping gets so much harder the older you get? Is it because our bodies let us down? We get saggy bits and our tummies bulge, our bottoms droop and our bingo wings flap. Our skin tone changes and colours that once looked great, are now deeply unflattering. I also think we get fussier the older we get. When we’re young we can get away with wearing almost anything, relying on our youth to make us beautiful, but, as age takes its toll, we rely more and more on clothes to be our armour against the judgemental gazes of others.

Women, especially, have it the hardest. We want to dress youthfully, but there’s always the fear of being “mutton dressed as lamb”, that overwhelming dread of appearing ridiculous. For women of my age, we’re caught in that hinterland where skinny fit is no longer an option, but we’re still resisting the siren call of elasticated waistbands. Where the much-loved brighter coloured clothing can clash badly with menopausal hot flushes, yet we don’t want to give in and wear beige.

There is a serious gap in the clothes available to us that a clever clothing manufacturer could fill. After all, most women my age have money to burn and would be more than happy to spend it on well cut, nice quality clothes that are fresh, youthful and, crucially, fit. Clothes that make allowances for bumpy bits, and sticky out bits, and the fact that not all women are 5’7” stick insects. In short, clothes that boost our flagging self-confidence and make us feel good about ourselves. Now, what woman wouldn’t pay a little extra for that? I know I would.

Anyway, it’s now gone 4pm on Saturday afternoon and I need to start getting ready. I’ve suddenly realised that stupidly I wore a jumper this morning, and now have to try and negotiate it over the gazillion hair pins it took to tame my hair into a posh, grown up style.

This wasn’t the blog I set out to write, I had intended to have a light-hearted ramble through the Christmas presents – good, bad and downright hilarious – that I’ve received over the years, but that can be a blog for another week.

Take care of yourselves, and I really hope you all have a great week. As usual, I would love to hear from you, so please drop any comments here or you can contact me on Facebook and Instagram. See you next week, the last blog before Christmas, when hopefully, I will be able to tell you I’m ready and waiting for Christmas to do its worst.

All the best

Julia Blake

Deck the Halls! Christmas Bling ding-a-ling-ling

We put our Christmas tree up on Monday. A little early for us, but due to staff holidays and sickness I’m pulling a lot of overtime right now and am working all weekend (think of the money) so it was really the only day we had spare. Now normally we have a whopping 8 to 9-foot tree – being a Victorian property we have ridiculously high ceilings – but this year decided to restrain ourselves to a 6’ one instead. We also changed where we put it.

Traditionally, it has stood in the corner by the window which means I have to dismantle and move my writing deck upstairs and store it in my bedroom. Well, this year I just couldn’t face that. There’s also the financial side of it. Real trees aren’t cheap. 9’ real trees definitely aren’t cheap, and as we’re aiming for a low-cost Christmas this year, a smaller tree seemed more sensible all around.

So, early Monday morning I loaded Miss F and her best friend Miss A into my tiny Nissan Micra and were on the doorstep of Blackthorpe Barn where we buy our trees every year. Those of you who’ve been following my blog since the beginning, will remember that’s where Miss F had her prom. Going that early on a Monday morning meant the place was deserted and we had the pick of the freshly cut trees.

Restraining ourselves to only looking in the 5-6’ section was harder than I thought it would be, but I stood firm, despite all Miss F’s entreaties. Then we spotted a pretty little tree that really stood out from all the others due to the odd lime green colour of some of its branches. The Christmas tree guy had no explanation for it, other than it might have grown on a mineral deposit of some kind, but assured us it was perfectly healthy, just… different. Being perfectly healthy just different myself, that settled it.

Then we had to get it home. One adult, two teenagers and a six-foot tree in a Nissan Micra was an interesting challenge, but luckily it’s only a ten-minute drive home and I was able to see through the foliage – just. The girls then went to college and I was left to heave the wet, muddy tree into the house, locate where I’d put the pot last year and attempt to set it up myself. I thought it would be easier than most years when I manhandle a nine-footer into submission, but it was harder. It was going to be stood on top of a pair of storage boxes that stand by the sofa and act as a side table. I tried putting the pot on the table first then lifting the tree into it. No go. I simply couldn’t see the pot to manoeuvre the tree trunk into it. Eventually, I had to put the tree in the pot on the ground, fasten it securely and then lift the whole thing, pot and all, into position. It’s a good thing I’m as strong as an ox and was also stubbornly determined that I would get it up there.

Then I had to play that ever popular game of “do the lights work”? Yes, they did. I then had to play the even more popular game of untangling them. Why is it, no matter how carefully you put them away one year, they’re always tangled the next. Usually we have two strings of 200 lights each, but this little tree only needed one. I filled the pot with cold water, put the tree skirt on and positioned the angel on top of the tree. Our angel is a very grand affair, bought over twenty years ago, it has real feathers sprayed gold for wings, porcelain face and hands and real fur lining its velvet robes.

Then I stopped and went no further, until the girls came home from college (somehow Miss A had ended up being invited to stay for dinner and help decorate) and we lit the fire, put on cheesy Christmas tunes and I heated up some mulled wine.

I couldn’t help but remember all those Christmases past when I was a child. My dad never really had any part of the Christmas decorating rituals, other than going up into the loft to bring all the boxes and bags of ornaments and tinsel down and, of course, the desperately fake Christmas tree. In the seventies, I don’t really remember anyone having a real tree. I suppose people must have done – posh people – but not the likes of us. Nope, plastic was fantastic and never mind about all that fire-retardant nonsense, if one of those babies went up in flames in the night, it would have been death by chemical inhalation all the way.

The tree we had all through my childhood was a shade of green unknown to nature, straight up it loomed with dead straight green tinsel branches sticking out at angles. No attempt had been made to make it look natural, this tree flaunted its fakery with pride. Looking back, I shudder, but as a child I didn’t care. It was a tree and it was pretty, and when it was all lit up in a darkened room, I felt it had been transported here direct from fairyland.

My mother too played the “do the lights b****y work” game every year as well. Back then, Christmas lights were expensive, and you really expected them to last a lifetime. We had big, brightly coloured bulbous ones – tasteful white lights were unthought of – and I remember her borrowing the next door neighbours soldering iron to weld wires back together on the tiled hearth, before my father came home and lost his temper about lights that had broken down a mere ten years after purchase. Nowadays, I’m thrilled if my lights last two Christmases. They don’t make them the way they used to.

I don’t know if other people do it differently, but for my family the lights always go on first. That way you can push them into the heart of the tree and hide wires along the branches. Then the tinsel goes on. Back in the seventies, it was always a case of how much tinsel can one tree hold? That and a bit more. Shimmering ropes of gold and silver, blue, red and green, we put them all on until the tree was blinged out more than a number one rap artist.

Then came the ornaments. Looking back, I remember my parents having some lovely ones, all glass of course, although towards the end of my childhood I do remember the odd plastic one creeping in. Year after year, the same ornaments would come out and my brother and I would greet each one with cries of joyful recognition. They seemed like old friends to us and we would fight over who put on which favoured ones. I once knew someone who threw away all her ornaments after Christmas each year and then the next would pick a new theme and buy all new to match. My horror knew no bounds, and I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her kids. Part of the joy of Christmas decorating is that sense of tradition and familiarity. You haven’t seen these ornaments all year and it gives a feeling of continuity when they are carefully unwrapped and lovingly placed.

There was a trio of yellow, plastic teddy bears sporting little gold bow ties which were particularly loved. We would each take one – mum, my brother and I – and carefully pick three perfect places for them to go. Several years ago, at a family lunch, my mother announced she was getting rid of all her old and rather tired ornaments and would be buying new. My brother and I looked at each other in horror.

“What? Not the teddy bears?”

“Yes, those old things can go.”

“No! You can’t throw the teddy bears away!”

“Well, you can have them if you’ve that fond of them.”

My brother and I looked at each other.

“There’s only three,” I said. “How do we split them?”

“Oh, I don’t want those tatty old things on my tree,” he replied. “I just didn’t want mum to throw them away.”

So, I inherited all three. The little trio that has been together for fifty years has stayed together. Both Miss F and I love them, their appearance each year is greeted with happy recognition, and although we had a much smaller tree this year and many hard decisions had to be made about which ornaments to use and which not, there was never any question that the yellow teddy bears would not once again sport their gold bow ties this Christmas.

The first Christmas after I’d left home, I was so poor I only managed to scrape together enough money to buy a small tree and a string of lights, but friends came to the rescue. Coming around one evening they sat and made a variety of decorations out of popcorn, tissue paper, the inside of cigarette packets, beer bottle lids punched through and strung on string, ring pulls threaded together and a very impressive star made from an old cereal box and tinfoil. It was an unusual tree, but I still have very fond memories of it, and even fonder memories of the friends who gathered around it to help me celebrate my first Christmas of independence.

The following year I was again a bit hard up after buying presents but bought a job lot of cheap plastic baubles and some tinsel. Then I splurged the last of my pennies on a pair of beautiful golden glass twisted ornaments. Hellishly expensive, they stood out on my tree like thoroughbreds at a donkey sanctuary and I loved them. They were gorgeous and special, and it made me determined to bring the rest of my tree up to match. So, every year since that first one all those decades ago, I have treated myself to one beautiful ornament.

Then tragedy struck. One Christmas Eve eighteen years ago, my then husband and I were laying up the table in the dining room ready for lunch the next day. Everyone was coming to us for Christmas, so we were determined that everything had to be perfect. Suddenly, there was a loud bang from the lounge, rushing through we found the door blocked and had to force our way in only to find, much to our absolute horror, that the Christmas tree had fallen over. One of the supporting legs on the plastic pot it was in had snapped and the whole lot had gone down with force into the fireplace.

Luckily, the fire wasn’t alight otherwise it could have been very nasty, but as it was, shattered ornaments lay all around, the pot was destroyed and the water it had contained was now seeping all over the carpet. Worse, all the presents that had been carefully piled up underneath ready to hand out next day, were soaked in green, scummy, pine scented water.

It was an absolute emergency. Not what you want to happen on any day, but on Christmas Eve! Thinking fast and looking at the clock, I realised that B&Q – a big hardware store only minutes away from us – would be open for another twenty minutes. I sent my husband off with orders to not come back without a new pot. Then I tried to assess the damage. First thing: rescue the presents. I quickly unwrapped the affected ones. Some packaging was soggy but otherwise the contents were okay, these I put to one side to be re-wrapped. People would simply have to understand.

But my ornaments, my beautiful, expensive, lovingly purchased over the years’ ornaments, hadn’t been so lucky. Some were amazingly still intact. Landing into the tree, they had survived the “timber” and were okay. My first golden twists were both alright, but a crystal fairy was shattered as was a star and several golden and orange twisted glass baubles. Sadly, I got a bag and picked out the broken ones.

My husband got back, and we managed to right the tree, fixing it securely into its new stout pot. The rest of Christmas Eve was spent painstakingly picking all the shards of glass out of the rug, spreading out the remaining ornaments on the tree to cover the gaps and re-wrapping the now slightly soggy presents. It made for a good story on Christmas Day, but I still remember the victims of the tree crash with a pang. One offs, I’ve never been able to replace them.

Then Miss F was born. For her first Christmas she was given a beautiful Wedgewood bell, and every year since I have bought her one lovely tree ornament of her choice. This means when she finally has a home of her own, her first tree won’t have to be decorated with ring pulls and popcorn, although if she has friends as good as mine gathered around her tree, she will be very blessed indeed.

As soon as Miss F was old enough, she began “helping” me to decorate the tree and was very proud of how beautiful our tree always was. It wasn’t until years later that I let her into a secret. After she’d gone to bed, I would take everything off the tree and start again. Because she was so little, she’d place all the ornaments at her own height in the centre of the tree, so it looked very odd. I’d make all the right noises, my OCD screaming at the sight, then thankfully rearrange everything once she was safely asleep. She never realised, and everyone was happy.

Each ornament on our tree has a story. Each has an origin tale that as we unwrap and place it on the tree we remember. Being a small family of two, these traditions help bind us together and give a sense of continuity going forward into the years. There’s the glass ballerina bought when I took Miss F to York on holiday and we saw her first ballet, Cinderella.

There are my gorgeous Venetian glass droplets, five of them of ever-increasing length, they came from the small glass making island of Murano in Venice and were so-o-o-o expensive it made my eyes water paying for them. But I love them and was so relieved they survived the great tree disaster of 2001.

I have three red glass ornaments given to me by a friend when she was learning how to make glass decorations, and as she now lives very far away, they are a lovely reminder of her. One year, Miss F had a bit of a craze for penguins – I think it was the year “Happy Feet” came out – so when she spotted a penguin tree ornament, she just had to have it. Same with the reindeer in a bell and the glass stag.

For a few years’ birds were her passion, and she collected an entire family of birds which she assembled into what she calls her “bird nativity” – I don’t ask, I just go along with it. A peacock feather bauble, golden fruit, a tiny mirror fit for a Lilliput Versaille and a grand Snow Princess were all yearly acquisitions.

There is my frog prince ornament, bought on that same trip to York from an amazing shop there called Christmas Angels that sells all things festive all year round. If ever you go to that fabulous city, be sure and pay it a visit. As soon as I saw this, I had to have it. And there is a mini disco ball, because what tree doesn’t need one of those?

Apart from the falling tree tragedy, there have been other victims over the years. A rather sweet rocking horse was knocked off the tree when a very heavy cookie dough Santa above fell onto it. Santa’s black shiny boots were knocked off and the poor horse lost his tail, but we simply turn his back to the wall, so it doesn’t notice.

And then there is the gherkin. A bone of contention between Miss F and I, in that I hate it, whilst she loves it. Every year I try to lose it amongst the other decorations, but every year she finds it and insists on displaying it in pride of place. But this has also become traditional, and maybe if it did actually get lost one year, I would miss it. Or maybe not.

Every year I end up trimming lots of branches from the “ugly” side of the tree to make it fit into the corner of our small lounge, but those branches aren’t wasted. We have original fireplaces in both our reception rooms which simply cry out to be “Christmassed” and I always go to town on them, piling on the sparkly things and the bling and ending up with something I think looks amazing and, even if I do say so myself, really quite professional.

We have an old nativity set that is decades old and is really beginning to show its age. Perhaps some would have thrown it away by now and replaced it with a shiny new one, but its flaws are what make it familiar and loved. It doesn’t matter that the stable roof has been condemned, that Mary has a chip in her cloak and the donkey has lost his tail. They’re family, and you don’t throw away family for the sake of a few imperfections.

Goodness, what a long blog this has been. Sorry about being so wordy and I hope you were interested enough to stick with me to the very end. At least there were lots of pretty pictures to keep you amused.

I am working all weekend and then I have a whole seven days off! Only getting three days off over the Christmas period, I always make sure I get in first with my holiday request and get a week off in December to not only prepare for Christmas, but also to have a rest and brace myself for the madness that working in retail brings during peak time.

Hopefully, you will join me next week and I wish you all a peaceful and happy Sunday. If you are decorating your own trees, then enjoy. If you don’t celebrate Christmas, then allow me to extend to you, warm wishes anyway, in the hope you will accept them in the spirit in which they are given.

All the best

Julia Blake

The Goose is Getting Fat… Christmas Past & Present (or possibly no presents)

This week I’m going to be using the C word a lot. I apologise for using the C word and know that halfway through November it is still way too early to be using the C word, but, events have occurred that have left me with no choice but to think about and say the C word a lot. Christmas. Sorry, I know most of you don’t want to hear it yet, but there’s no escaping from it. Christmas is coming whether we like it or not.

I always think that nothing illustrates the law of diminishing returns better than Christmas. Think about it. When you’re a kid you do absolutely nothing to contribute towards Christmas – except throw a strop on Christmas Day because you got Barbie Princess, and not the Barbie Diamond Princess you actually wanted but your poor, harassed mother didn’t realise was completely different from plain, boring Barbie Princess. Or by helpfully puking your guts up with excitement on Christmas morning. Or by refusing to go to sleep until gone midnight on Christmas Eve, thus meaning your exhausted parents are falling asleep on the sofa they’re so tired, but can’t go to bed until after you’re well and truly down – well, they have to sneak into your room and quietly fill the stocking at the foot of your bed.

Tip to all new parents, start the tradition on the first Christmas of hanging up their stockings either downstairs or on the handle of their bedroom door – so much easier for sneaky Santa shenanigans. If they really insist on having the stocking in their bedroom, then buy two identical stockings. Hang one up in their room, the other one is hidden in your room already filled to the brim with their presents. Then the moment their little peepers are firmly closed, it’s a simple case of creeping in and doing a switch. You’re welcome. This has been a Public Service Announcement by Julia Blake.

Anyway, as I was saying, when you’re a kid you do NOTHING to help with Christmas, yet you get EVERYTHING. Christmas plays, parties, carol services, lunches and trips to Santa in his grotto to give him a list of your demands. Your excitement levels ratchet higher with every door you open on your chocolate stuffed advent calendar. You enjoy decorating the tree, without giving a thought to the poor parent who’s had to tramp around a muddy field picking the “perfect” tree, wrestle it into a car too small to take it, manhandle it into the house and into a suitable pot and then play the ever popular game of “will the lights work this year”? Even if your parents opted for a plastic tree, they’ve still had to climb into the loft to find it, risking life and limb crawling over a year’s worth of stuff that’s been shoved in front of the boxes of Christmas decorations.

As you get older, maybe you start to contribute a little more – you have to write the cards for your school friends, maybe mum makes you write cards to family members, perhaps you even have to help choose and wrap presents. As teenagers, yes, you do a little more, actually buying presents for your family and maybe helping a bit on Christmas day with food preparation and serving. But as kids grow, so the things on their wish list grow smaller and more expensive – iPhones, PlayStation games and money – being the most asked for teenage things.

Once you get beyond the teenage years then it’s all downhill, and as soon as you get a place of your own, Christmas begins to gobble down your money like an ever-hungry festive fledging. Suddenly, all the things that mum and dad bought and you always took for granted, you’ve got to buy for yourself – and you’re starting from scratch having to not only buy a tree, but all the ornaments, lights and other Christmassy bits and bobs to make your new nest a Noel ready retreat. Every Christmas since Miss F was born, I have bought her one beautiful tree ornament, so she now has fifteen plus a few others she’s acquired over the years. That means by the time she eventually leaves home, at least she’ll have enough to make a good show on her very first Christmas tree.

For a brief while, before kids come along, Christmas is still fun. But the moment you become a parent then that’s it, you’ve reached the bottom of the pile in that you do EVERYTHING to make Christmas happen and in return get NOTHING! Most women are sole co-ordinator and cook over the Christmas period. We’re the ones who make the present list, think of what to get for everyone, buy it, wrap it and usually arrange distribution of it. We’re the ones who plan menus and write endless shopping lists.

Going around the supermarket doing the big Christmas shop one year, I looked around at all the other women doing the same, frantically grasping their precious lists, muttering under their breath, eyes glazed with stress and exhaustion. A near fight broke out in aisle seven over the last packet of sage and onion premade stuffing balls. Husband’s – completely failing to understand the severity of not being able to find the right jar of caramelised red onion chutney to go on a cheese board everyone will be too full to eat – trailed miserably after their wives, and wondered just how much trouble they’d get into if they slipped away and went to the pub. And over it all, the strains of “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” floated down from the store’s radio onto the heads of women who every year swear Christmas won’t be the stressful, exhausting, disappointing hot mess it always turns into, yet know with a sinking sense of inevitability, that it will be.

I think we’re all in love with an ideal image of Christmas that simply doesn’t exist. An image created and fed by films, TV shows and magazines, by the longing inside us all to have the perfect Christmas that sadly, most of us never have. The reality being a group of exhausted, stressed out, disappointed people being forced to sit in an overheated room together, exchanging gifts they don’t want, and having to fake gratitude at getting yet another scented candle and bath bomb set that smells like primary school toilets, and for him, deep joy, socks and a mini car maintenance kit.

Why do we do it to ourselves? Especially, why do us women do it to ourselves? I have a sneaking suspicion that if it were left to men, Christmas would comprise of a pie and a pint down the pub, then falling asleep in the armchair in front of the TV. It’s us women who make it such hard work. Before Miss F came along, I used to almost collapse from exhaustion and stress trying to make it the perfect Christmas. Hundreds of pounds spent on presents that all had to be wrapped just so, handmade Christmas crackers and individually wrapped beautiful and thoughtful little table presents for everyone to open before Christmas lunch. Handmade place settings. And enough food and drink purchased to keep a small, third world village going for a month.

Every year it was the same. Every year I’d vow not to do so much, to not spend so much, to not stress so much, but every year I’d get swept up in the Christmas tide and every year I’d run myself ragged. Every Christmas Eve, I’d finally sink into an armchair with a sigh of exhausted relief, glass of something festively alcoholic in hand, with everything done, every card written and delivered, every present perfectly wrapped, all the vegetables prepped for the next day and the house a shimmering, shining homage to Christmas, and then I’d feel it – the ominous, scratchy tickle in the back of my throat which by Christmas morning was a fully-fledged throat infection – every single year, I’d be ill for Christmas Day purely because of the amount of needless stress I’d put myself under.

Then my marriage fell apart and suddenly everything changed. I had neither the money, time, energy or inclination to make everything absolutely perfect. I had a small child, and obviously her needs came first, but children don’t care if the tag on their present is handmade and they don’t care if the paper is responsibly sourced, fully recyclable and handcrafted – all they care about is that there are presents, a big heap of plastic crap under the tree for them to rip apart in a feeding frenzy of excitement.

Gradually, over the years, I’ve looked for ways to make life just that little bit easier for myself – cut down on the amount of food bought. It’s a family of four you’re feeding, not the whole of the Welsh Rugby team – you don’t need a 20lb turkey, make do with a turkey crown, bought all ready to go in the oven pre-stuffed and wrapped in bacon and in its own handy baking tin. The busy woman’s friend, it’s considerably cheaper than buying a whole turkey, fits in the oven, cooks quicker, doesn’t tend to dry out so much and doesn’t leave you with a carcase to try and cope with on Christmas evening. Cut down on the veg. One Christmas dinner spent at my brother’s house, my then sister-in-law had prepared fifteen different vegetables! Fifteen! A truly ridiculous and unnecessary amount of extra work, fuss and worry. Buy the Christmas pudding ready-made. Trust me, no one will ever know the difference.

Don’t be a martyr. Delegate jobs. If you’re hosting Christmas dinner this year, then get all the family in the kitchen Christmas Eve on veggie prepping duty, open a bottle of wine, put on cheesy Christmas music, arrange funny guessing games to play whilst peeling the mountain of potatoes, Brussels sprouts and parsnips. If you can, lay the table days in advance. Don’t worry about a starter, trust me, the amount of food there is, no one is going to be getting a takeaway on the way home. Or if you simply must have a starter, have plates of beautiful bite size canapes to serve with Prosecco before dinner instead.

Above all, do everything you can to make life a little easier for yourself. After all, this is your Christmas as well. No one is going to be happy if you’re too ill to enjoy yourself because you insisted on being a martyr and doing it all yourself. Ask for help. Demand help if needs be. This is everyone’s Christmas, so EVERYONE should chip in. Many hands make light work is at no time as true as it is at Christmas.

This year, Miss F and I have taken the ultimate step, in that we are having a practically present free one. It has taken me almost a whole year to pay off what I spent on Christmas Day last year. Think about that. Eleven months to pay off one single day. Looked at in the cold light of day, it’s ridiculous and a bit obscene. So, we discussed it, and jointly decided no presents. After all, as Miss F rightly stated, that’s not what Christmas should be about. It should be about family and friends, being together, enjoying good food and spending a stress-free time away from work and life. For me, it’s even more important that Christmas is a relaxing time because working in retail means I only get three days off over Christmas. The 23^rd, 24^th and 25^th.

For the past two years I’ve had to look at my watch all Christmas Day, thinking how I have to be at work by 9am the following morning – and trust me, that puts a real crimp on things. So, this year, we’re doing things a little differently. The 23^rd will be our Christmas Eve, the 24^th will be our Christmas Day and the 25^th will be our Boxing Day. At first a bit sceptical how this would work, my family are now fully on board as things have slotted nicely into place. My brother will be spending proper Christmas Day with his girlfriend and her family but can spend the 24^th with us. The village my parents live in have a beautiful “carols by candlelight” concert at the church every Christmas Eve at 6pm. Usually, we’re all too busy getting ready for Christmas Day to even think of attending, but this year we will have eaten Christmas dinner and be quite up for a stroll to the church for a bit of drunken carolling. Then on Christmas Day proper, I can relax and enjoy a completely stress-free day before plunging back into work and the madness of after Christmas sales. Oh, the joys of working in retail.

So that’s our Christmas sorted, and do you know, I have noticed immediately a difference between this year and last year. Not having to worry about what I’m buying for everyone and how I’m going to afford it has lifted an enormous weight off my shoulders.

It was the grand switching on of the Christmas lights in Bury St Edmunds this week – and I hope you’re liking all the photos, sorry they’re a bit blurry but I have a rubbish camera – I wasn’t able to go this year as I had to go to a college thing with Miss F, but it’s always well attended whatever the weather. And then of course, next week is the actual Christmas Fayre. The third biggest in the country, it is a massive event with practically the whole town closed off and busloads of tourists coming in from all four points of the compass. I remember last year, chatting to a couple of girls I was queuing for something with, they told me they’d travelled all the way up from Devon just to come to the Fayre for the day!

As I told you last week, myself and four other local authors are having a stall on which we will be selling our personally signed books. I am excited about it and also worried, I have invested quite a lot of money into this event – not only the cost of buying a good supply of my books to sell, I’ve also had lovely little scented candles made to match my books, I’m buying lots of gift wrap supplies to offer a free gift wrapping service and I’ve had to invest in a card reader as most people don’t carry cash with them, and the ability to take card payments should hopefully mean more people will buy my books. It’s just as well I’m not buying any Christmas presents this year! Fingers crossed my gamble pays off.

If there’s anyone local reading this (or perhaps you’re bussing in from the West Country), then why not pop in and say hello. We will be in The Guildhall down Guildhall Street from 10am to 5pm Friday and Saturday, then the others will be there 10am to 4pm on Sunday – sadly I have to work, so I won’t be there on the Sunday. It would be lovely to see you. I may even be wearing a Christmas jumper and if you’re looking for some unique and personalised gifts for Christmas then there will be a wonderful collection of books on offer, all personally signed by local authors, along with bookmarks and candles. Very importantly, there is also a café and toilet facilities in the Guildhall.

What do you think about Christmas? Are you an Elf or a Grinch? Do you love all things Christmassy or do you bah humbug at the whole shenanigans? I’d love to hear your thoughts on it. As usual, you can comment here or contact me on Facebook or Instagram.

Finally, many of you have contacted me asking about Queenie Ant. Thank you, it’s so sweet of you all to be concerned. I am happy to report that we think she’s still alive as earlier in the week Miss F is convinced she saw one of her legs uncurl then curl back up again so we’re hopeful that come the Spring she will wake up and we’ll have lots of little ant babies running about all over the place. Imagine that.

Anyway, once again it has been great chatting with you and I hope you enjoy the rest of your Sunday.

Take care.

Julia Blake