How does it know it's Christmas?

Christmas is a mystery, otherwise my vacuum cleaner would not know exactly when I'm going to have to get it out to make some attempt at getting rid of a few dustmites for the arriving family, who are allergic. Up till then, the thing had led a life of leisure; the minute it looked like being crucial to the success of Christmas, it threw a wobbly. Being of bohemian tendencies, I have to have a see-through vacuum cleaner (ie a Dyson), or I would never have the incentive to use it; I love to empty it and see just how much I can get it to fill up in one go in of my 6-monthly bursts of activity.

Being easily pleased, last night I stared open-mouthed at the windows, as I'd washed all of them on one evening, in fact, in about half an hour. We haven't had much about household hints lately, so I will say that Hagesan Fenster-putzer really is the best stuff, which I got from Biggers of Bailgate in Lincoln, an Aladdin's cave of cleaning stuff. This window stuff seems to leave an uncanny shine on windows and tiles, so it has definite element of magic about it, and the blurb is quite right when it says 'super konzentiert; absolut streifenlos'. http://www.biggerofbailgate.com/

Rosy dawn at St Peter's

My book of household hints from 1954 recommends spraying windows with 'a little liquid bluing' after washing. I looked up 'bluing' for further guidance in the book, and next to the entry was a thing on 'bobsleds', with the suggestion that these 'can be useful after children have outgrown them': 'pad and cover with gay fabric' to use as a low seat in front of a fireplace. Mmmm. I'm not convinced. Can a sledge ever be outgrown?

Being easily pleased, I was overjoyed this morning to run down the hill (not quite as far as church) in mi dressing gown and rubber gloves dragging the dustbin at speed in order to catch the dustmen on their last round before Christmas. They were swarming about the area, and I have a joke on the subject available on application, which was the only thing I could think about until I turned for home triumphantly with empty bin, and then I saw the rosy dawn light reflected in the windows of St Peter's church thus. To think that such a sight is within a dressing-gown's reach of my front door. This is the church we don't use, and it is nearer my house that the one we do use. Weird. Wonderful Barton-on-Humber.

Happy Christmas, dear little mop

Being easily pleased, today I was just about to throw out a small unused mop which is intended for use on bathroom tiles, and in a moment of brilliance thought that it might make a great floor mop for a medium-sized kitchen. I'm so pleased, I had to do a celebratory photograph of it. The kitchen floor is the one thing I do reasonably in housework, mainly because of my belief that it saves time elsewhere. It seems to me that the sqare yard around the cooker is absolutely crucial; keep this clean, and you will not have chip fat + muck travelling through the rest of the house. The mop head is only about 6" x 4", and it can snake its way through chair legs like no other mop can. Welcome back, dear little mop. Perhaps I should write this up as a delightful tale for children? There's a great big burly mop outside destined for the dustbin; awwwwww.

T'owd man is easily displeased, and today he decreed: 'We will not be having a Christmas tree ever again'. Arriving Son no. 1 has other ideas, and there is a plot afoot to wait till t'owd man goes out (see pew sheet for times of services), and then swing into action. Another gripping installment will have to follow to keep the public informed (but not him for the moment).

T'owd man is not popular with the arriving grandchildren; well one of them anyway bursts into tears at his approach. She does have a very strong attachment to any kind of owl, so I thought perhaps I would make him an owl-suit to wear about the house in an attempt to ingratiate him into Cecily's affections. Cec takes after him though in liking to lay laws down, and she has decreed that she must be able to see the moon at all times when she is out in her pushchair after dark. If she can't, she makes her displeasure felt. But a man who decrees no Christmas tree ever?? P G Wodehouse eat your heart out for this character.

Ready for take-off

And finally, I tried to sneak past t'owd man carrying table legs the other day, as I decided to swap some furniture about the place. I was spotted of course, but allowed to carry on, and here you see my desk in situ in the lair. The design was inspired by studying apocalyptic literature at the time it came to be painted. It took some adjusting to, and maybe I ought to have painted it during study of Deuteronomy. (Perhaps the three wise men might have had desks like this.)

Where IS this going? You tell me - in fact: between Christmas day and new year, I invite my readers to send in a blog post of their own making, with a small prize for the best.

But I end with another pic of the Humber taken at the weekend, one of a kind that is all too frequent: there's a little patch of colour down on the bank; bunches of flowers in memory of someone who found that even the approach of Christmas could not make life seem worth living. I went out to photograph the sunset, but sadly the west path was closed and so I had to take the east. I saw something I hadn't noticed before, which was that one of the towers contained a mention of a poem written for the opening of the bridge by Philip Larkin. You can listen to it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PNUZ-s7FmYw and read it here: http://rihlajourney.wordpress.com/2008/11/04/philip-larkin-bridge-for-the-living/ Called 'Bridge for the living' it ends 'Always it is by bridges that we live'. I wonder - did he ever write a poem about the bridge after a few years' 'use' by the despairing? We could do with some more of his words now.