Almost

– Well, here we are. The final minutes of 2013. The New Year practically upon us. A new beginning awaits... I said –
– Yes, I got all that. A new whatever.
– You don't seem very enthusiastic.
– I've been here before. New Years. They come every year.
– True. There is a certain inevitability about them. They don't exactly catch you by surprise. But, at the same time, there is something special about New Year's Eve. Bidding farewell to the achievements and disappointments of the last twelve months, and welcoming a new chapter in your life, brimming with untapped potential. It should instil a certain sense of hope and anticipation.
– I suppose so. It's difficult to know how best to prepare.
– So what are you planning to do with the evening?
– I've been boiling the turkey carcass.
– Is that something traditional?
– No, not particularly. It's not something I specifically do on New Year's Eve. It just happened I was looking at the leftover turkey earlier and thinking it was about time I did something with it.
– With a view to – ?
– Well, I'm not quite sure. I always assumed it was to generate a supply of exquisite turkey stock to enliven my cooking for the rest of the year. Typically, however, it gets deposited in the freezer and forgotten about. But I still feel a certain compulsion to go through the motions.
– It's good to continue these quaint customs. I always feel that something precious is lost when they are allowed to lapse.
– I'm not so sure I would describe the turkey stock as precious. It's just – well, broth-like.
– Of course. But surely this is a perfect example of what I was describing earlier. By re-enacting these ancient traditions you are making a direct connection with your historical and cultural roots. And, at the same time, the broth you are creating is not merely a dilute soup, but, more importantly, a symbol of your deep-seated spiritual preparations for the coming year.
– Yes. That had occurred to me.
– I'm glad to hear that. Happy New Year.

Waist

Whenever you open the fridge, you see the remnants of Christmas. Mainly turkey, of which still quite a lot has survived. Perhaps I bought one slightly larger than I really needed, but it somehow didn't seem right to buy a small, puny one: it might have ended up being all bone, or beak. And likewise Christmas pudding. Again, it seemed more economical to get a reasonably substantial one, and, besides, it would have come in useful had a dozen guests unexpectedly dropped in for dinner. (A long shot I know, but not impossible. Merely, almost certainly impossible.) But none of it will go to waste: I will, in time, work my way through it all. It just might take a while.

I find you have to pace yourself, especially with the pudding: a portion every day is a bit much for the palate; and the waistline. I am not used to so rich a diet. In comparison, the turkey requires less effort, and can readily be enlivened by various accompaniments and/or sauces. Admittedly, I have yet to explore the full range of the culinary possibilities and have been content to alternate between turkey sandwiches with stuffing and turkey sandwiches with cranberry sauce. I am building up to the day when I attempt turkey sandwiches with both stuffing and cranberry sauce: it will be the highlight of the week.

Reflection

– There is always something of a lull at this point of the festivities.
– How do you mean, a lull?
– Well, you know, a lull. A slight hiatus in the emotional roller-coaster of Yuletide celebrations, as we slowly recover from the excesses of Christmas Day and look forward to the excesses of New Year's Eve.
– Of course. I guess it's quite a good idea having a lull: things would get rather wearing otherwise. Constant feasting and partying takes it out of you. However much you practise. Anyway, I quite like this time of year: you feel you are in between things, as if the old year has already ended and the new one not yet begun. A sort of hinterland. Do I mean hinterland?
– I've no idea.
– Especially being off work, as fortunately I am. You have all these days stretching emptily before you, with no need to rush out of the house in the morning, no need even to traipse around the shops, as, conveniently, the fridge is still packed with all the food you didn't get around to eating over Christmas.
– There's always the January sales to lure you out.
– I manage to resist them. The thought of being trampled by hoards of carnivorous bargain-hunters is not very appealing. I would rather have a few hours of quiet refection than a half-price sweater in a colour that makes me feel queasy. It takes time, you know, to take stock of the passing of the year and to make resolutions for the future.
– So have you made any resolutions?
– Not yet. I don't like rushing in to major commitments.

Chimney

– It's late.
– Yes. Christmas Day is almost upon us. I'm worn out – trying to get the last of the chores out of the way, so that tomorrow I merely have to prepare a mountain of vegetables and cook the turkey.
– You probably don't need so many vegetables. Not a mountain's worth.
– True. Maybe half a dozen sprouts will be enough. You can have too many sprouts sometimes. They are best used sparingly.
– I noticed you put out some whisky and Christmas cake for Santa's nocturnal visit.
– Yes.
– They are no longer there.
– I know. I thought – I thought it was better this way.
– Better what way?
– Better if I had them.
– Better than leaving Santa a gift?
– I was thinking of him: he must get so much stuff as he visits every house. Mince pies, sherry, carrots –
– I think you will find the carrot is actually for the reindeer.
– I left the carrot.
– I wonder why.
– It can't be good for him: a diet of alcohol and high fat, sugary food.
– I admit it leaves a lot to be desired. But who are we to deny an elderly gentleman this minor indulgence? After all, it is only one night a year. He probably eats nothing but lentils the rest of the time.
– I could leave a sprout or two, if that would help.
– If you're sure you can spare them.

The grass below – above the vaulted sky

Roast

– How can it all be done?
– I don't know. It just is.
– All of it?
– I think so. Maybe I will think of something by tomorrow morning, and nip out quickly. Sparkling water maybe: it's always useful to have some on hand. But it's hardly essential. How about yourself?
– Well, I take a rather more traditional approach to my gift and food shopping, and purposefully leave it all to Christmas Eve.
– Is there a good reason for that?
– Clearly, you can take full advantage of the January sales, which will probably start tomorrow. Also, you can avoid the frantic queues in the supermarket, as everyone else has been rushing around for the past few days, leaving the aisles free for me.
– And possibly free of food.
– There is a chance of that. But, realistically, there will be something left on the shelves. Maybe not anything you would normally consider festive enough for your Christmas lunch, but sometimes it is more rewarding to challenge convention. And, say, have fish fingers.
– I'm sure they would go very well with roast potatoes.
– Indeed.
– And cranberry sauce.
– You would be surprised. Anyway, what else is there to do on Christmas Eve?
– I'm behind with my housework.
– Who isn't? That is the point of housework: its sole purpose is to make you feel inadequate. Just ignore it, and enjoy some more Christmas shopping.
– I don't need anything. Apart from sparkling water. And fish fingers.

Wrap

It is already a couple of days since my birthday (in case you are interested, and would like to make a note for next year). It is not the ideal time to have a birthday, being lost to some extent in the frenzied run-up to Christmas. You try to stop and reflect on the significance of the event, but your concentration is sidetracked by remembering that you are short of tin foil, or have forgotten to buy a present for the cat, or you don't know how you will fit the turkey in the fridge when it's already full of jars of cranberry sauce. And then, before you know it, the birthday has come and gone, with little to show for it but a mountain of shredded wrapping paper littering the living room floor, and the mild nausea that comes from eating too much birthday cake in one sitting. And just as you come to terms with the stresses and excesses of the birthday celebration, you remember there is only a week to go before it all kicks off, on an even grander scale, for Christmas.

Helium

– You know this impending birthday?
– Which?
– Yours. Your birthday. Impending.
– Yes. Of course.
– It seems to be impending quite imminently.
– I suppose it is getting closer.
– It's just that you seem to be quite relaxed about it.
– Well, perhaps I take a somewhat stoical view. It is one of those things you can do little about. It will happen, I am sure, regardless of anything I do. Another year older.
– Indeed. But think of all you've achieved this last year.
– I'm afraid not a great deal comes to mind. It doesn't seem to have been the most action-packed of years.
– Surely something of note must have happened?
– Let me think about it.
– At least you can have a raucous celebration on the day itself.
– I don't know. I'm not really into raucousness. Perhaps a quieter, calmer celebration will be more appropriate: to reflect on the slow and steady trickle of time.
– What about balloons? They are always fun. Especially on a birthday.
– You think I should get balloons?
– Everybody likes balloons.

Badge

–You've on the mend, then, after your recent unpleasant affliction?
– It seems I am over the worst of it. I dragged  myself back to work yesterday. I don't think I've ever had so long off work due to illness.
– That is an exemplary achievement. They ought to give you a badge, or a certificate, or something.
– I'm afraid there is little chance of that. Anyway, I do not do these things for public recognition.
– I suppose your infirmity was just another symptom of time's relentless progress.
– How do you mean?
– Well, none of us is getting any younger.
– That's true.
– And shingles is typically an illness of the elderly and infirm.
– I'm not so sure about typically...
– The point is, you're unfortunately past your prime. Indeed, you have another significant birthday next week.
– I'm not sure it's such a significant one. More routine, I would say.
– I think at your age, they are all significant.
– Right...
– But don't worry: these things are to be embraced.
– They are?
– Given you have no chance of keeping it secret from your colleagues, you might as well embrace it.

Hope

It is hard to believe that any other world leader of the present age could receive such universally heartfelt tributes on the scale of those that commemorated the passing of Nelson Mandela yesterday evening. Watching the televised obituaries, it is depressing to be reminded of the history of apartheid, of the injustices that a political ideology can impose on a whole population, denying fundamental human rights and treating people as an underclass in their own country. But there is also a message of hope: hope that an unwavering belief in justice and the value of human dignity can be strong enough to bring down an oppressive regime. Mandela's story illuminates both sides of human nature: from the depths of cruelty to the heights of compassion. Perhaps the message we should cling on to is that we are not helpless in the face of injustice, however weak we may feel ourselves to be individually; but collectively we have the strength to change society for the better.

Pox

– You don't seem to be rushing back to work.
– No. I would like to – nothing would please me more – but I must bow down to medical opinion.
– Which is telling you to put your feet up and watch daytime TV?
– Not in so many words. But in essence, yes.
– All because you've decided to contract rickets?
– It's shingles. It's different. Hence my elegantly straight legs.
– Sorry. I think I was actually confusing it with scurvy. I was about to offer you an orange.
– Right... It was a surprise to hear the diagnosis – it hadn't occurred to me. I had thought it was some non-specific virus causing the feverishness. Though I suppose the red spots were a clue.
– Spots are always a giveaway.
– It's a little unsettling to think how it comes about: that you've had the chickenpox virus lying dormant inside you since childhood, biding its time, and then, for no very good reason, it decides to reawaken, and – attack.
– That is a bit creepy. It will give me nightmares.

Sauce

– So you never made it into work?
– I'm afraid not. I didn't feel quite right: still a bit woozy at times. It comes and goes.
– That's the thing with illness: can be hard to predict. Not much fun being under the weather with Christmas fast approaching.
– Quite. I suppose there's a few weeks to go...
– Three. But they will fly past quickly. Gone before you know it. And there'll you'll be on Christmas Eve, still looking for presents, and wrapping paper, and a turkey, and a gravy boat –
– Thank you. I get the message. Hopefully things will be sorted out long before that. And anyway, I'm not sure about the gravy boat.
– You have enough already?
– I haven't any. Precisely because I don't see much point in them.
– How can you not see the point of them? How else can you serve the gravy?
– I cope. Somehow I cope.
– You're clearly still not well. This is delirium talking.
– Is it?
– When you get better, you will understand.
– Understand? What?
– Gravy boats. You will understand gravy boats.

Ruin.