Elf ’n’ safety
THE approach to Christmas at our church was marked by a series of unfortunate events. It began with a heavy leak from the vicarage kitchen into the basement flat of an elderly neighbour. As the vicar was away, and neither churchwarden had a key, the honorary assistant curate decided to break in and investigate. No sooner had he smashed a window than the neighbour’s daughter popped up, holding a key that she’d just found and wondering whether it was for the vicar’s front door. It was, of course.
A couple of days later, the head of our primary school rang. A child had got locked in the church lavatories during a rehearsal for the school carol service. The fire brigade were called: they cut the bolt and freed the child, but now, besides getting a glazier and a plumber for the vicarage, we had urgently to fit a new lock on the lavatory.
Then — since bad things come in threes — two days before Christmas, the inside handle of the church’s back door fell off, its spindle mysteriously snapped. This had a make-do repair with a promise to tackle it properly at some future point.
Sometimes, the best we can do is to muddle through. Manning the mulled-wine stall on the night of the school carols, I found that the tea urn was refusing to heat. As a queue of thirsty parents formed, a friend had the bright idea of warming the wine using a kettle in the kitchen. If the coffee after mass on Sunday seemed to have a festive kick, that is why.
At least no one broke a leg, unlike poor Joseph. Our church has a beautiful nativity ensemble of clay santons from Provence, which the curate decided to use as props for the children’s mass. Unfortunately, Joseph slipped from his hands and sustained a fractured femur and a nasty neck injury. As the curate took him to A&E for gluing, the sacristan admitted that, one year, she had taken Mary out of the box and her legs had fallen off (Mary’s, that is, not Mrs Williams’s), while a parishioner confessed that she had just decapitated a fallen angel while vacuuming. And you thought that the biggest risk to the Holy Family at Christmas came from Herod.
Casting challenge
ALL of this made me anxious about Christmas Eve. Every year, for decades, we have had a procession through the village at dusk, with children, playing Mary and Joseph; a donkey; and a band. It ends with carol-singing outside our church on the heath, and has grown into a huge community event with more than 1500 people joining in. It is magical, and raises thousands of pounds for the homeless.
The assistance of the police is much appreciated, but, this year, the inspector told me that he was giving the task to a sergeant who was marking his final day on the force after 38 years. “Oh, no,” I replied. “I’ve seen that film before.”
Fortunately, the only mishap came when the donkey got stage fright and refused to walk. His owners quickly moved him off the road to continue by horsebox, and the children led, following an illuminated star that the wife of the vicar of our neighbouring parish had attached to the end of a mop. A slight liberty with the story, but it worked.
Next year, the donkey will be spared walking past the crowds and instead meet Mary and Joseph at their destination for a tableau. I wonder whether we can also get an ox?
A new leaf
CHRISTMAS morning began with another incident in the church lavatory. My teenage daughter had slipped out during mass, and returned ashen-faced. She had dropped her phone, and the screen had gone blank. No kiss of life could save it, and it couldn’t be repaired until the New Year. She would just have to make do without tech.
Surprisingly, she took this calamity rather well, almost relieved to be spared the constant contact with her peers and the emotional angst that seems to go with it. Without social media, she suddenly became sociable in real life, and much happier. A miracle!
I learned from this, and decided to do my own digital detox, deleting Twitter from my phone. Eve was not the last person to know the punishment that comes from being tempted by an Apple. I have spent too much of my recent life “doom-scrolling”, especially in bed at night, and have decided to try something called books. I reckon that they might catch on.
Ancient rites
JUST before Christmas, I had a wonderful bonding experience with my daughter, although it also involved a small disaster. We had decided to go to Stonehenge to watch the sun rise on the solstice, and had left home at 4 a.m. An hour later, we were on the hard shoulder of the M25 with a burst tyre. The RAC couldn’t be there before dawn; so I Googled an emergency tyre-fitter, who came in half an hour and left £350 richer. Ouch.
At least we were on our way again. We parked at Amesbury and walked for 45 minutes across the chilly, mist-covered fields, arriving at Stonehenge just in time. There, I heard a sudden “Hello, Patrick,” and turned to see a friend from the Savile Club, in Mayfair, who had also decided to go for a dawn walk on Salisbury Plain. It really is a small world.
The sun came up, and the Druids held their ceremony, banging drums and barking chants. Figures in long robes, their heads garlanded with holly and ivy, were burning sage, a solstice purification rite that gave the air the whiff of Sunday-roast stuffing. Others seemed to be smoking something else. There was no hint of trouble, just an amiable togetherness.
It reminded me of another Christmas tradition I have often enjoyed, in which people in strange costumes perform rituals in their sacred place accompanied by music, smoke, and chanting, in front of a stimulated but peacefully joyous audience. I am, of course, referring to the World Darts Championship at Ally Pally.
Gloom resistance
AS I write this, a week after Epiphany, I am pleased to see that the village Christmas tree remains up and alight, like the ones in our church and home. Most shops and houses have taken down their decorations, some having prematurely put them up in October, but the council illuminations are still on, and, I hope, will remain until 2 February. I reject the modern tradition of undecking the halls at Twelfth Night, and press on to Candlemas.
Why should we remove joy and light from our lives when the weather is grey and dank and a tax bill is pending? Especially when the abstinence and penitence of Lent begin as early as 18 February. At the very least, the decorations should stay up for as long as Death on the Nile and Evil Under the Sun — those traditional Peter Ustinov Christmas films — remain on BBC iPlayer. And as for the awful concept of Dry January . . .
STOP PRESS: Two days after I filed this column, the village Christmas lights were suddenly turned off. I’d like to hope that Lewisham Council, rather than simply being a week late in pulling the plug, was honouring the medieval Feast of the Ass in recognition of our own reluctant donkey.
Patrick Kidd is a journalist, and warden of All Saints’, Blackheath, in south-east London.
