London, GB | Formerly of New York, Buenos Aires, Fife, and the Western Cape. | Saoránach d’Éirinn.

Christmas Diary

The Cast:
Me (Cusack, interloping friend of the family)
Garabanda (Tom, paterfamilias)
Alexander (Alexander)
The Turkey (Joseph)
Finn (Finnian)
Woogy (Callum)
Ming (materfamilias)
et alia

23 DECEMBER

It was the strange clicking sound emerging from the engine of the Renault Espace that started us off on our journey. We were off to pick up Piccolo Giuseppe from Heathrow, where he was returning from his school skiing trip to Jasper in Alberta, and from Heathrow to whisk him, and ourselves, off to the country for Christmas.

Alexander had, according to Garabanda, insisted on debating the meaning of the universe until 2:00am the night before upon returning from the Oratory Christmas Spectacular, with the excuse that, spending the next week or so in Somerset, someone had to drink the wine before it went bad. I suggested it was a legitimate cause, but Garabanda pointed out no like offer was made with regard to the eggs or milk.

Mildly perturbed by the clattering click, Garabanda nonetheless steeled himself and surged forth westwards towards the great flight-harbour of Heathrow. There we disembarked the auto, Alexander and I seeking early morning comfort in the form of cappuccinos while Garabanda searched for the bog. We stood there awkwardly at that point where Terminal 3 regurgitates its arriving passengers disapproving of the sad and haggardly appearance of the frightful arrivées emerging from the sliding doors.

“I have to say,” asserted Alexander, with the slight diffidence earned by being an elder brother who attended a much more minor public school, “you can always tell the Etonians, so we just need to look out for when they start appearing and then we’ll find Joseph“. And sure enough, there was the Turkey himself. We went and exchanged the usual pleasantries of inquisition — How was Canada? What was the snow like? Did you sleep on the flight? — before wondering where on earth Pater Reverendissime was. Then we found Garabanda, one eye on his Morning Office, the other earnestly scanning the arriving folk, clearly unawares that his youngest had already passed through.

Back on the road. Where are the cupholders in this thing? We hadn’t finished our cappuccinos. What films were on the flight? Was Canadian skiing better than skiing on the Continent? Why on earth didn’t you sleep at all on the flight? What timezone are you in mentally now? Is that clicking sound getting worse?

Garabanda’s concern increases. More money than is perhaps ideal has already been invested into the maintenance of the Renault. Resolute though the Garabanda is, one could sense the irritation tinged with regret involved in his very practical choice of motor vehicle.

Reading Services. Perhaps we’d better stop and get this looked into. A phonecall to the Automobile Association. We’ll send a man round. I whip out the Irish Times (the previous day’s, I’m afraid) and grow increasingly concerned about the deleterious effect the new property tax will have on The Old Country. We keep our eyes peeled for the yellow AA van, and one duly arrives but the Garabanda goes forth to meet it and discovers it is not the one for us. Conversation probed the depths of the current situation in Europe before the right yellow AA van arrived. The nice man peeked under the bonnet, the engine was run, the sound was observed, and we were solemnly advised not to continue the onward journey to Somerset. A flatbed would be sent to pick up both the Renault and ourselves. It could be an hour and a half before he arrives, but he’d phone 15 minutes before to alert us.

“You know, I have to say, this is just typical. You buy French, you get French.” Alexander, it’s worth pointing out, does work for the Eurosceptic party in Brussels. The Turkey flapped his wings about gobbled a bit. Garabanda continued with his Office. Eventually the Boys decided to make an attempt on the conveniences provided, chiefly WH Smith and Burger King. Alexander searched in vain for the Economist, so he bought a harmonica instead (plus Scientific American). Joseph and I went for the Burger King option. And four crowns please. We all sat silently in the belly of the Renault, wearing our paper crowns as the rain gently pattered on the suitably inspected and bureaucrat approved shatterproof glass.

Eventually the flatbed found us and we found the flatbed. The Renault was moved onto its new perch and we all climbed into the surprisingly spacious cabin of the flatbed. A very rainy and peaceful journey on to Somerset continued, and I think all three of us lads in the back caught a bit of shuteye or two, though Alexander at least feigned reading his scientific magazine.

Closer to the destination, we were alerted to the updated plan of battled: Finnian would meet us at the lay-by just past the end of the lane and carry us on to the Farm, while Papa und Driver et Renault would head onwards to the Renault garage in Bath. As we approached, we sighted Finnian in the drizzle waving a property-for-sale sign up and down mechanically to catch our attention. The Garabanda gave orders to alight the flatbed and we duly alighted the flatbed.

Finnian’s car is decorated with silver tinsel in the festive spirit of the season. “Finnian, did the Pogg do this?” “Mate, the Pogg isn’t even around! Aw the Pogg, so Podgey-Pog, the Pogg!” Martina (pronounced podge) doesn’t like being called the Pogg because she finds it dismissive, but it’s quite obviously a term of endearment, and besides, it requires an article, which denotes her importance. The Pogg is the Pogg.

Swiftly through those country lanes — I had forgotten how fast Finn drives — around this bend and that and then with surprising speed we find ourselves at the Farm. Alexander and I hop out of Finn’s car as the Ming rushes out: Joseph has an orthodontist’s appointment in Bristol that must be kept. Inside the house, Callum calmly appears in the kitchen to bid us welcome in his fashion.

We sit around drinking a pot of rooibos inexplicably brewed in a French press and so tasting slightly of coffee. We hear a car purring up the gravel drive and sure enough it’s Ivo. Banter.

CHRISTMAS EVE

Porridge for breakfast. My love of proper porridge is such that I’m certain there must be a Scottish peasant or two in my ancestry. This morning’s porridge is taken with weapons-grade Iranian honey. How it ended up in Somerset, I’ve no idea.

Expedition to Bath. Alexander off for a haircut, Finn to seek some parfum for the Pogg. I potter about the architecture section of Waterstone’s with Callum, looking at big picture books of Edwardian houses. Eventually we all reunite and head to the nifty little café with pretty girls behind the counter, but its too crowded so we foolishly sit outside in the cold with our ciders.

The evening: a drinks party in the new wing of the Museum. We enjoy a fair amount of champagne and keep our eye on the Turkey to make sure he doesn’t overdo it. Banda whips out his sketchbook and takes down a face or two. Popping outside for the cool fresh air of winter, we are surrounding by a bizarre artistic installation of flowing fiberoptic lights in changing colours. When the moment comes, the party dissembles with surprising swiftness, and we return home for dinner.

Ming, Garabanda, and Woogy head off for Midnight Mass at St. John’s in Bath, but the rest of us are die-hards for Downside. We arrived around 11:20 with the abbey church mostly unfull. Alexander grabs his own seat to be alone with this thoughts while Finn, Joseph, and I grab three seats halfway down the still unfinished nave. The Turkey grins and whips out a flask… of orange juice. I nip over to St. Oliver’s shrine to get a prayer in.

Ivo arrives with father in tow and Hubert too. Says the women of the family abandoned them and opted for the following morning instead. Rupert and fam also in evidence a few rows behind us. Lord Hylton with his great big beard! He looks like Professor Alembeck from King Ottokar’s Sceptre.

A few carols before midnight, then finally the Mass itself begins. The Abbot processes down the nave in his finery, but looks a bit weary. Poor man: he hasn’t had an easy time of it. The church is glorious though, and glowing. Strange how it feels so like home returning to it. I didn’t even go to school here!

After Mass, see Dom Philip Jebb, still going, and surrounded by those paying him their respects. Then to the lower ref for some hot chocolate. Banter amongst the lads. Chat with Hubert about Irish republicanism. Gives me the name of a book to read. Hubert and Papa McG head home but Ivo decides to get a ride from us so he can stay longer. At Easter we went for a proper wander and Ivo regaled us with fond tales of naughtiness from school days.

We’re the last to leave as a monk urges us homewards. Apologies, apologies. Absolutely dark outside the looming abbey church as we make our way to Finn’s car. Alexander says we’re like German peasants departing midnight mass in times medieval. Ein extra potato to celebrate the feast he suggests, and a lemon curl on the fire to bring at least a bit of festivity to our grim, miserable lives.

CHRISTMAS DAY

The ancient former housekeeper arrives and tea is served beside the fire. Finnian always interrupting with questions and rude points. She turns to him and in her peaceful, elderly tone says “You always were the worst one!” Finnian is pleased as punch by her remark.

Having filled up at breakfast, we enjoy a simple brunch before Joseph and Finn are dispatched to steal mistletoe off a tree in the neighbouring farmer’s field. After surviving a barrage of rotten apples, I join them, and then Alexander and I go on a little journey up the hill and down further east and then back home along the lane.

After some time sitting around, Hein joins us and we go for another expedition: Ming, Garabanda, Callum, Finn, myself, Joseph, and Hein. Up the hill, looking out over the valley, and discussing various plans.

Back at the Farm we enjoy the most delicious foie gras in the universe — the fruit of Hein’s own labours — consumed joyfully along with a number of bottles of champagne.

Christmas dinner: the succulent turkey, fully stuffed, the sausages and bread pudding, carrots and brussel sprouts, and all manner of deliciousness on hand. The conversation excellent as always, with periodic bouts of violence breaking out in Joseph’s neighbourhood, likely instigated by Finnian.

Hein had brought along another creation: a Russian cake made with some sort of crackling ingredient that made such a noise and danced around on your tongue when you consumed it. Theatrical and tasty. In tribute, we listened to the Red Army Chir singing the Song of the Volga Boatmen, and then Garabanda suggested Glenn Miller’s version, which was enjoyed as well as the homemade elderberry gin was passed around.

BOXING DAY

Awoke to the sound of guns. Boxing Day shoots about the valley. Porridge for breakfast, and for lunch cockaleekie soup followed by cold turkey and stuffing.

We knew the McG’s were scheduled to come round at 4:00, but Finnian whimsied an impromptu trip into town to ‘hang a Pret’, so Joseph and I joined. Ming tired to stop us, saying the McG’s would be arriving at 3:00-3:30 but we spied what seemed an obvious subterfuge. In town, Giuseppe was sent out as footman to fetch three cappas while Finn and I waited in the car. Then we sent him to Starbucks so as to launch a scientific inquiry into the respective qualities of Pret cappuccino versus Starbucks cappuccino.

We were back at 3:12 and sure enough Clan McG arrived in two sorties starting at 3:31. (In the intervening period Finn had tied string to the empty paper cup that had contained his cappuccino and hung it from the Christmas tree — thus giving literal truth to his expression ‘hang a Pret’). Hubert, Ivo, Papa McG, and I discuss Scottish and Irish politics, and history, and de Valera, and the War, and the general scheme of things. Had a chat with Christabel about Roger Scruton’s Modern Culture and she persuades me to read it again even though she finds it “too right-wing and conservative”. (Bloody art school’s gotten to her).

Finn and Ming off to Dorset for the evening. Alexander, Callum, Joseph, Tom, and myself settled by the fire and watched Istvan Szabo’s film “Sunshine”. Could be vastly improved with a bit of editing, but for such an ambitious project it works better than one would expect. Midway through we broke out the Zwack Unicum and sipped it through the remainder of the film.

A simple supper followed by a quiet evening. A bit of piano from Tom, then Callum. Alexander retired early following a vain search for his book on nationalism in Silesia. I suggested he read the biography of Hansel Pless. Fr Rupert gave me a copy when I was on my way to South Africa but, much to my disapproval, it was lost by the South African Post Office en route to New York. Luckily I had finished reading it during one of the more grey weeks of winter in the Cape.

Retired myself to pack my bags, as I had to catch the morning train back home to London.

Jolly time. Christus est natus.

Published at 10:02 pm on Wednesday 4 January 2012. Categories: Diary.
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