Monday, November 27th
Any worries we may have had about the Parish Council’s Treasurer & Finance Officer William Woods after his rather precipitate departure at the end of last Monday’s Council meeting —he nipped away quickish after mention of the annual financial review, and there was speculation by some that he may have nipped off with Council funds to an island hideaway with his mistress, while others thought he may have just remembered he had left his laptop open, and his browsing history available to Mrs. Woods —anyhoo, any worries turned out to be unjustified, but he has made a bit of a boo-boo. In short, it is his annual job (I am not sure why it falls to him) to order the village’s Christmas tree, and he forgot. That may not sound like a very big deal, but you try getting a decent 30- or 40-footer delivered and, more importantly, installed at short notice at a good price and see how you get on. Also, because of everything that has been happening, what with the threat of unwanted foreigners being imported into the village, and then the fire at the village hall, the question of where to site this year’s tree has also been overlooked by everybody. Usually it stands proudly outside the hall, but the hall is currently partially fenced off prior to it’s post-fire refurbishment, and where the tree usually stands is occupied by an unsightly heap of fire-damaged fixtures and fittings, because whoever is supposed to be clearing away the debris hasn’t. All of this is tedious in extremis, but should not be beyond the wit of man to sort out, although it seems to be beyond the wit of any parish councillor.
It was suggested by Miss Tindle that the tree – assuming we eventually get one – should be erected next to the War Memorial, but several objections to this were raised, not least of which was that whatever beauty the tree may possess when decorated and lit would be marred by the presence of the War Memorial’s regular band of dissolute loitering youths. There is also the fact that the War Memorial is not very big , and would be completely obscured and, as a result, somewhat disrespected by having such a gaudy (the word “gaudy” was indeed used more than once) near-neighbour. The high politics of local government never cease to astound me. It also turns out that Hazel Garnham, the Parish Clerk’s wife, who each year musters a team of volunteers to see to the tree’s decoration and lighting, is unable to do that this year because she has been having what John, her husband, described as “lady problems” and is “not up to it”. (I cannot begin to describe the look on his face as he told us this, by the way.)
Thursday, November 30th
I had been wondering quietly to myself whether or not we might cancel Christmas this year – it seems like a good option, especially as in my house the in-laws are here for the duration – and I was enjoying a solitary pint in The Wheatsheaf at lunchtime when Michael Whittingham waltzed in and, slapping me on the back, announced loudly and proudly that he “had it all sorted”. When asked to explain, he said he had fixed the Christmas tree problem and it would be delivered and put in place at the weekend, and do not argue, he added, because it is a fait accompli, and he was now going to be in everyone’s good books. I think this latter is extremely unlikely, but that is by-the-by. I did not bother to ask for an explanation, because it was obvious he would say he knows a bloke who knows another bloke . . . His world is not my world. In fact, I do not think I know any blokes, unless you count Whittingham himself, which I would prefer not to.
Sunday, December 3rd
Give Michael Whittingham his due, he (or, to be exact, his cronies) delivered, and the Christmas tree is in place, and and we just need to find someone to organise the decorating and lights and wotnot. Somebody needs to do it, and quick, or Christmas will be over. The tree is standing on what used to be the small car parking area in front of the little hut (for want of a better word) that used to be our little local library and is now not a library but an empty and rather sad and dilapidated wreck. The tree is surrounded by large and colourful advertising for the company that provided it – advertising that is neither Christmassy nor even vaguely religious in tone, bikinis being quite evidently neither – which has raised one or two eyebrows, but Whittingham tells anyone who dares question anything in no uncertain terms to . . . (I am not going to write that.) John Garnham, who traditionally is the village’s Santa Claus and sits next to the tree for a couple of hours to distribute small gifts to the village children, has expressed a reluctance to sit in the car park of an abandoned hut without convenient access to either toilet facilities or a tea urn. Frankly, I don’t really care.
I do not care because my mind is elsewhere. At home, my wife and her parents have been busy installing our own tree and decorations. I let them get on with it, because it’s 3 against 1, and I have been spending more time than usual in The Wheatsheaf, telling them I am attending to Parish Council duties and attending GASSE (“Go Away! Stay Somewhere Else!”) committee meetings to guard against the importing, albeit on a temporary basis, of unwanted foreigners to the village. I have not let on that GASSE is currently not active, but neither my wife nor her parents seem at all bothered where I am. I have become very friendly with Lulu, who works behind the bar. She is a very nice young lady, very friendly, and as I may have mentioned before, she is a lot brighter than her name would suggest. She is actually surprisingly well-read, and we share a liking for the stories of M.R. James. Her favourite is ‘A Warning to the Curious’, and so is mine. It is nice to have someone of like mind to talk to, don’t you find?
Monday, December 4th
Nancy Crowe and her daughter Naomi have stepped up and volunteered to see to the Christmas tree decorations and lights. Apparently Naomi is getting the youth who hang around the War Memorial to help, which I shall have to see before I believe it, and heaven knows how it will turn out. They had better get cracking, because the big “switch-on” of the lights is scheduled for Saturday. Wearing my Parish Council’s Community Liaison and Publicity Officer (CLAPO) hat I need to get on with the advertising, and also I have to make sure that our celebrity light switcher-onner is still available (or alive). I gather he is getting on a bit. We are shipping in a former resident of the village, an actor who apparently had a couple of bit parts once upon a time in “The Bill”. I’ve got his name and phone number written down on a piece of paper somewhere, if I can find it.
James Henderson
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