Wednesday, December 01, 2004
It's Coming On Christmas, They’re Cutting Down Trees, They're Putting Up Reindeer And Singing Songs Of Joy And Peace...
...oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on.
When I’m on time going into work, I pass Father O’Connell on his morning constitutional somewhere near York Road. Then I’ll get stuck behind the number 11 at the bus stop by the Wrea Green mini-roundabout and overtake the cyclist with the purple rucksack somewhere near the Ford garage.
If I’m running late, Father O’Connell can be anywhere between The Fairhaven and the White Church, the bus can be anywhere between the Ford garage and Warton, and the cyclist has been known to get as far as the other side of Freckleton before I’ve caught up with him.
There’s something reassuring and comforting in the regularity of these sightings. They are like pieces in a model train set, the only variable being my timekeeping. Children need routine in their lives, and that includes me.
Today I was unusually early, so my Holy Trinity were: on St. Thomas’ Road; too early; and Lytham windmill. For an added bonus I got to watch Car Park Wars On Ice from my first floor sniper’s position, which is always a treat.
This afternoon I ‘attended’ a conference call, which meant donning my S Club Seven headset, switching my phone to mute and spending a couple of hours daydreaming out of the window.
Spike and Rex the security guards were gritting the car park. It’s not part of their job description, but Rex’s brother works for the council and can supply as much grit as they need, no questions asked, and it’s become something of a tradition.
Every year on this day, the first day of Advent, the Season of Good Will Hunting and Peace To All Men officially kicks off and manifests itself in the form of two big ugly blokes with shovels and a wheelbarrow.
They work together as regular as clockwork marionettes, steaming like racehorses, mouthing the words, “Shovel, scatter, shovel, scatter, the body of Christ, the blood of Christ, the body of Christ, the blood of Christ, do this in remembrance of me and do unto others as you’d like to be done unto yourself, and once again the Angel of Islington says “Peace be with you, and mind how you go, it’s slippy over there,” and Joseph the carpenter looks at his wife and says, “Christ, I suppose this means you’ll want some more shelves putting up,” and his wife the blessed Virgin Mary nurses the newborn bollock naked baby Jesus and says “Hush, I’ve just got Him to sleep,” and the same as last year and the same as every year, with a tear in her eye she places Him in the manger wrapped up in swaddling clothes and lovingly whispers unto Him the words of the old standard: I gave you my heart but the very next day you gave it away.”
When I’m on time going into work, I pass Father O’Connell on his morning constitutional somewhere near York Road. Then I’ll get stuck behind the number 11 at the bus stop by the Wrea Green mini-roundabout and overtake the cyclist with the purple rucksack somewhere near the Ford garage.
If I’m running late, Father O’Connell can be anywhere between The Fairhaven and the White Church, the bus can be anywhere between the Ford garage and Warton, and the cyclist has been known to get as far as the other side of Freckleton before I’ve caught up with him.
There’s something reassuring and comforting in the regularity of these sightings. They are like pieces in a model train set, the only variable being my timekeeping. Children need routine in their lives, and that includes me.
Today I was unusually early, so my Holy Trinity were: on St. Thomas’ Road; too early; and Lytham windmill. For an added bonus I got to watch Car Park Wars On Ice from my first floor sniper’s position, which is always a treat.
This afternoon I ‘attended’ a conference call, which meant donning my S Club Seven headset, switching my phone to mute and spending a couple of hours daydreaming out of the window.
Spike and Rex the security guards were gritting the car park. It’s not part of their job description, but Rex’s brother works for the council and can supply as much grit as they need, no questions asked, and it’s become something of a tradition.
Every year on this day, the first day of Advent, the Season of Good Will Hunting and Peace To All Men officially kicks off and manifests itself in the form of two big ugly blokes with shovels and a wheelbarrow.
They work together as regular as clockwork marionettes, steaming like racehorses, mouthing the words, “Shovel, scatter, shovel, scatter, the body of Christ, the blood of Christ, the body of Christ, the blood of Christ, do this in remembrance of me and do unto others as you’d like to be done unto yourself, and once again the Angel of Islington says “Peace be with you, and mind how you go, it’s slippy over there,” and Joseph the carpenter looks at his wife and says, “Christ, I suppose this means you’ll want some more shelves putting up,” and his wife the blessed Virgin Mary nurses the newborn bollock naked baby Jesus and says “Hush, I’ve just got Him to sleep,” and the same as last year and the same as every year, with a tear in her eye she places Him in the manger wrapped up in swaddling clothes and lovingly whispers unto Him the words of the old standard: I gave you my heart but the very next day you gave it away.”

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