Oh, my word,
It’s quite absurd,
But I’ve just found my favourite gin!
It’s full of botanicals,
None puritanical,
Some foraged locally and added in.
The Botanist,
Is Amethyst,
And that for me is a precious stone,
I’ll only share,
On a wing and a prayer,
I’d much rather drink it alone!

When the sun rose

I’d go down to the dock,

Sand under my toes,

As I sat on a rock.

And watched as the fishing boats

All came home,

Strong men in overcoats,

Jumping into the foam,

And bringing their catch,

Safe into shore,

Bream for the potlach*,

Sole, oysters and more.

And I would go down,

And choose my own fish,

Then back into town,

To make us a dish…

*potlach is a celebration or party

We opened our presents,
Both lavish and simple,
A tome mighty heavy,
By William Dalrymple,
A vegetarian cookbook,
French, quelle surprise,
A striped pair of PJs,
Donned in a breeze.
And then the cat climbed into a bag…

I had some chocolates,
Which will not last long!
This was all done to
Looped Christmas song!
Our niece was best pleased
With a nice DVD
Of one of the series
Of that hit show Glee.
And the cat nestled into her bag.

There was aftershave and perfume,
Liberally sprayed into the air,
A melange of odours,
That clung to your clothes and your hair,
And left each of us present
A tad frigidaire,
And the cat stayed in her bag.

A sleeping bag liner,
A beautiful cape,
Lush bathroom goodies,
Wrapped snugly in crepe,
Shed loads of wrapping,
Reams of red tape,
And all of this washed down
With lashings of “grape”,
And the cat wouldn’t come out of her bag.

She has a penchant
For things that will tinkle,
She tends to lie on
Clothes that crumple or wrinkle,
She’s so enclosed in that space
That she looks like a winkle,
And she’s now got a liking
For a bag that will crinkle,
We shall have to keep the cat’s bag!

This is my Botswanan nativity,
Sculpted with great creativity,
By a skilful loving hand,
In what used to be called Bechuanaland.
The carving is simple, even austere,
But the intention extremely clear,
That this should be a timeless piece,
No artifice and no caprice,
Nothing high-blown, nothing glib,
Just a simple group around a crib…

The 26th of December,
Is known as Boxing Day,
Because that is when British bosses,
Chose to give a Christmas Box away.

It is celebrated all over the Commonwealth,
In SA, Aus, New Zealand and Malta,
But elsewhere in Europe and Ireland,
The appellation alters.

In Ireland it is named for St Stephen,
But in Europe as the 2nd Christmas Day.
Whatever it’s called, this tradition,
Survives from Roman times to this day.

So this is my very first Christmas
With the families Field and King,
They do things with style, with a laugh and a smile,
And lashings of everything.

There’s a tree in the corner all covered in stuff,
With tinsel and shed loads of lights,
And placed round the tree, with a strange symmetry,
Those presents that please and delight.

They all really know how to entertain,
They really are the hosts with the most.
There’s bound to be ham and who knows, chilli jam,
And we might give the Queen the odd toast.

I know there’ll be smoked mackerel pate,
Because that’s always a palpable hit.
Enough will be made to feed a brigade,
And more, if supplies will permit.

And what of the Christmas Turkey?
This bird died in a very good cause,
It has every trimming, and none of it slimming,
And should be consumed with aplomb and applause!

After eating that beast, in this marvellous feast,
And the hours simply flying on by,
Without more ado, we’ll down a champagne or two,
And spread brandy butter upon that mince pie.

At Christmas, I like to go foraging,
For a healthy ivy and holly tree,
A home isn’t the same without it,
To bring a festive reverie!
I drape the mantelpiece with it,
So it is camouflaged in green,
Then add my hand carved Botswanan wood pieces,
Of a traditional nativity scene!

My darling makes a mean mulled wine. Here is my take on it!

A very large jug will come in handy,
Then heat some wine and bottles of Brandy,
On top of your trusty kitchen stove
With an orange studded with more than one clove.
Then add in some orange and lemon peel
And orange juice with quite some zeal.
A cinnamon stick, some allspice too,
Will make for a gorgeous warming brew.
Now you will need some star anise,
And now just taste for expertise.
Then sugar’s needed and stacks of ginger,
To give a taste that is sure to linger.
Now ladle it into a warmed up cup,
Don’t be shy now, just drink up!

Are you the kind of person,
Who simply votes with your feet,
When hearing tinny in-store music,
That is both ersatz and effete.
Or are you – like my beloved,
A lover of seasonal melodies,
The more saccharine and upbeat the better,
And served with shed loads of cheese!
I am doomed to a diet of Wizzard and Slade,
Happily, also to Phil Spector and Bing,
And the truth is – I’m afraid I admit it,
I can’t help myself, I join in and sing!

“Lace your boots tightly to give you support,
Your ankles will buckle if not tightly caught!
Now relax as you move and try not to feel fraught!”

So said my mother, as I attempted the ice,
It was sensible, practical, mindful advice,
But it didn’t stop me being on my back in a trice!

I’d simply no rhythm when learning to skate,
My technique was quite open to reproof and debate,
I couldn’t do circles, I couldn’t go straight!

My coordination, or lack of, was quite unforeseen,
My attempts at a ‘glide’ were frankly obscene,
And no, I would never be a Torvill or Dean!