Standing on one leg in a muddy field

The friends with whom I go walking planned to add a Christmas pub lunch to our December hike.  

I'm not a great fan of festive meals - memories of sitting round a littered table late at night, trying to make a large bill add up while slightly squiffy.

And would it even happen? Any of us might get flu, and we are each responsible for grandchildren or grandparents. 

Miraculously, we were all available on the day, but it was raining torrents.

 We brought our walking boots but more in hope than expectation. 

The meal was pleasant, but more than mince pies, we had hoped for a walk.  

The rain lessened, but still we loitered in the cosy pub. 

Finally Carol galvanized us and we set off across sodden fields, chatting.

On the topic of exercise regimes, Diane suggested that standing on one leg was good for mind and body. Like a bunch of middle-aged flamingos, we stopped amid the cabbages and tried it out.

Afterwards we carried on, climbed a ridge and looped back through beech woods. The clouds cleared and the embers of  sunset glowed along the horizon. 

It was a pleasant pub meal, and I'm glad I went. But standing on one leg in a muddy field with my friends was even better.

The Christmas scenes they deleted from Love Actually

In pursuit of the spirit of Christmas, Nigel and I met up with Carenza for outdoor carols at Columbia Road in Bethnal Green.  The vicar of St Peter’s church here is famed for wheeling a piano out onto the street and standing on it to conduct carols while a colleague bashes out the tunes below. 

It turned out to be far from a well-kept secret as every single twenty-something in London was already there.  Every one of them was taller than me, but I just about managed to keep my feet on the ground in the good-natured jostle, just hoping that none of the high notes started a stampede.  Nigel didn’t mind at all, as several of the young lovelies complimented him on his ‘beautiful voice’.  Pah!

On the way back from carols we got caught by train cancellations. We spent an hour at Farringdon with nothing to sustain us except a massive chocolate advent calendar Nigel was given at work.  We managed to call a halt at day six.

When we finally got on the train it was packed and a previous passenger had vomited. Then another drunk bloke skidded in it and fell over. Twice.

Explaining to a horrified onlooker, his mates said that it wasn't him who had been sick. 'It's legacy vomit'.

Nigel and I agreed that these might very well be scenes from a typical British Christmas.  So why on earth had they been left out of the final cut of Love Actually?  There’s simply no explanation.

Thanks to Carenza for the pics

Jack the Ripper hijacked our birthday

To celebrate Nigel's birthday we went for a self-guided walk around Spitalfields, Whitechapel and Brick Lane.

It was fascinating to learn of the silk weavers, the Jewish synagogues and the Moorish market.

However, we kept coinciding with other guided tours. Punters in lanyards clustered around leaders with flags. We must have crossed paths with at least five such groups.

Eavesdropping revealed that the others were all Jack the Ripper tours. When there was so much fascinating culture in that part of London, this particular ghoulish preoccupation seemed uncalled for. 

I have always been keen to avoid finding out exactly what the deranged serial killer did to his wretched victims but on Saturday I overheard far too much about entrails. There even appears to be a difference in status between 'official' victims of Jack the Ripper and 'unofficial' ones whose grisly deaths have not been conclusively attributed to him.

We then began to notice other manifestations of this gruesome tale. The local barber was Jack the Clipper, the fast food van was entitled Jack the Chipper. We imagined other local businesses we might set up in Whitechapel. Jack the flipper (selling burgers). Jack the nipper (selling cosmetic surgery). Jack the tripper, selling...well, you get it.