This Christmas, our friends invited us to share in their celebration at their house in Lincolnshire. Of course, we got the invitation far in advance, and of course, put off packing for the day before going.
The first thing was the wardrobe. In a flash, she had come up with all varieties of outfits for any time of day (1h time frame, as usual) and as for my look, we decided that it was probably better not to take me at all.
– You’re taking anything to read on the train? – she enquired.
– Ulysses.
– Why would you need such a contraption?
– What, Ulysses? Helps me with hangovers.
– Like Alka-Seltzer?
– Yes, like Alka-Seltzer.
We put the book in her small backpack, already full of her cosmetics. I took the rest of the luggage; since we were only going away for three days, I only had to carry three small ten-kilo bags of stuff for any conceivable occasion – from a ball in Versailles to another Apollo mission.
Our neighbours must’ve thought that we were leaving the country at last and offered us ‘good luck’s’ and ‘bye’s’, most likely thinking that there could be no better Christmas present. We waved back at their smiling faces and rushed off to the station.
British trains are known for being so punctual that they often depart ahead of schedule. We hurried. She ranted and scoffed at poor heavy Joyce in her rucksack all the way to the train. It had taken the man about seven years to write the thing and a few minutes for her to despise him for that. She finally burst and halted giving me an ultimatum – her or Joyce, or I take the bag and, for the rest of our lives, not to mention the bloody book again. I obviously yielded.
Approaching King’s Cross, we saw two fellows talking about the benefits of jay crossing when they were almost hit by a bike. Having been for the three past years Londoners, we didn’t bother to stop to help and simply carried on. Inside the station, as usual, Muggles were busy queueing for platform 9¾ having absolutely no idea (how could they?) that Hogwarts was closed for Christmas.
Our train was half an hour delayed, so she had some spare time to groan about her wet pants – nothing too serious, just that she had washed them before last night, and they hadn’t dried by morning. I tried to console her with the fact that with the UK’s weather, they wouldn’t dry for another few days. She laughed and kicked me – twice. She would’ve kicked me with Ulysses, had she not forgotten it on the table home.
The train arrived. For Christmas, National Rail has designed a special gift for its passengers – mixing up the order of the carriages so that people got on only to find they needed to get out and rush to the opposite end of the platform. The race began and we, unluckily, found ourselves at the wrong end of the train when it departed. So, we walked up to our seats, greeting and exchanging dulcet smiles with other passengers that were moving contrariwise. By the end of the journey, we’d arrived at our seats and got off the train.
– Oh, my pans got dry. – she said.
***
As we had an hour in Peterborough before our friends came to pick us up, we decided to explore the Cathedral.
We were surprised to learn that not just anyone but Catherine of Aragon is buried there. Should readers be unaware of the main soap of the time, here’s a quick recap – Henry VIII is said to have said he would neither spare man in his anger nor women in his lust, and being man of his word, he had as many as six wives and no end of opps.
The first of his wives, Catherine of Aragon, his brother’s widow, possessed intellect and patience, spend with him about twenty years of marriage, however failed to produce a son – not a small thing for perhaps the last macho chivalric King of England.
With no knowledge at the time of sex determination system, Henry VIII came to think that changing the wife would help to secure a boy, let alone the second wife, Anne Boleyn, was hot and French (though that is of no practical importance). As such, he dismissed Catherine and banished her from royal court, changing in the process the national religion.
One of the stands inside of the Cathedral somewhat proudly says
…. if Katherine had born a surviving son, you might still be standing in a Roman Catholic Benedictine Abbey rather than a Church of England Cathedral….
Amen.
Henry then refused to allow Catherine a state funeral in London because it was too expensive and had instead bought Anne new golden satin hangings (again, she was hot and French, but that’s obviously neither here nor there). However, Anne disappointed also, birthing just a girl again, Elizabeth. Catherine, by then forgotten, was buried in Peterborough. Her tomb was then destroyed during the Civil War and all women named Katherine were subsequently called upon to send a penny for restoration.
Be careful marrying royals or even giving children royal names.
In his defence, however, it was wise of Henry to place Catherine in Peterborough, the only British town unmarked by tourists.
***
Our friends arrived and drove us to the inn.
For a three night stay we had found marvellous country inn. The web site said, “[it is] perfect for couples looking for a peaceful and spacious room”.
The double bed was just about big enough to provide for two people if they could sleep rotating. If one moves or breathes, the other wakes up and an argument begins. By the end of our stay, we’d achieved the perfection of shavasana – the rule is it takes only an hour and a bit to stay still and breathless to get to sleep together, yet any premature moving will cause you waking up, to boot a quarrel, and you’d have to start again.
And of course, we’d paid for this just about the price of a getaway to Greece.
That besides, Lincolnshire is perfect for those who fed up with busy London and want to see absolutely nothing (but fields).
On Christmas day, we went to a local church for mass. People talked, sung, and prayed – all things that you’d usually have during any Georgian dinner. The vicar was relaxed and chatty. She related the nativity story with a particular stress on the fact that it was the shepherds to whom the angels revealed the news about Jesus. Stick to shepherds, they’ll know first in case.
This parish church seemed to be opening its doors for everyone, be they Catholic, Orthodox, or Zoomers. Indeed, as someone once said – “without worship, you shrink”. Perhaps, this is why some churches are so big.
Then we retired to our friends’ house and spent four hours cooking the roast and fifteen minutes eating it. In-between, while chopping onions, we had a listen to the King’s Speech and all wept.
After the meal, we snapped crackers and played the famous charade – guess together who those people on the cards are, and which are jokes and which are riddles. Afterwards, we exchanged socks and radiant smiles, and got back to pudding, which we were cooking for the first time and which we soaked so well in rum that everyone got a bit squiffy.
A little drunk, we departed back to the inn. Thank God some people don’t celebrate Christmas, so we were able to procure a bottle of red from a corner shop and returned to our quart-s.
Th next day, to complement the British cuisine, we cooked our traditional salad that everyone liked but no-one ate much of, opting instead for good old freshly baked sausage rolls and a generous partaking of leftovers and dips on the table.
As it was Boxing Day, we watched lots of football and welcomed lots of different people. With a nicely rotating array of company, we talked about the beauty of golf – the only sport that allows players to smoke and drink while playing. We discussed cocaine addiction among academic orchestra players. I’d always suspected trumpeters but hearing that it was all of them was too much to take (well, you never know what these pious people are hiding in their furtive pit). With the youngsters we scoffed about disadvantages of being educated privately and attending Oxbridge nowadays.
Then one American chap came by, uninvited, saying that some neighbours had complained about the noise, then he talked a lot about how they’d celebrate Christmas in the States and showed us the only way to roast a turkey. Despite living in Britain for more than twenty-five years the poor guy still hadn’t rid himself of the accent and still sounded like off a cassette tape. Luckily, no-one was even trying to understand him and didn’t like the turkey either. Unluckily, when he left, we found ourselves ran out of oil. We all grew sullen and parted.
The next morning on our way back to the train station, we popped over to our hosts again to say our goodbyes. They thanked us and provided with a doggie box full of our traditional salad and some books on British cuisine.
Getting off the train at Kings Cross after three days in country, we quickly realised why people hate London (and each other). We spent on coffee what people in the country spend on dinner and then finally arrived home, our enormous one-bedroom apartment welcoming us in. We should sleep very well tonight.
CORGI IN A PUB 