Twas the week before Christmas.
Which means one thing above all others at Shrewsday Mansions: the man of the house gets to indulge his primeval urge to make fire.
In civilised twentieth century speech, this translates as the Shrewsday Lantern Party.
It goes like this. I cook a vast amount of food, including a turkey. We make the house look respectable.
But when the time for the party arrives, Mr Sociable disappears into the garden, lights his chimenea and a plethora of coloured lanterns, and issues a stream of imperious requests through the back door. He demands string which is no longer in the drawer, and newspaper which has been put at the bottom of the recycling bin; and he huddles round the fire in the manner of his stone age ancestors.
While I, who have fallen into the recycling bin head first trying to reach the newspaper, attempt to extricate myself before the guests arrive.
There was an added dimension to the party this year: four inches of crisp white snow. The garden has eschewed its general damp disgruntled midwinter air, and shrugged on an evening dress of pristine, glistening glamour. The chimenea sported a white hat when we arrived this afternoon to light it; the bird table had developed its own monolith.
What a splendid backdrop it would be for the pre-ordered lanterns, sitting concertinaed in a jiffy bag on the side, waiting for their three hours of fame.
It is fortunate I have garrulous relatives and a voluble stream of conversation myself, because if we were depending on Phil for his usual debonair sparkle it would be a flat social occasion indeed. I fear it would be one of those stare-into-your-teacup-and-pray-someone-says-something gatherings.
Because Phil was in the garden, in love. The lifelong romance between himself and the dancing flames means that when a fire is lit, there is only ever really room for the two of them, he and that light-footed atomic pas-de-trois between carbon, hydrogen and oxygen.
No matter. Because no-one is ever short of conversation in this household.
Phil’s wedding speech was deeply funny. It had them rolling in the aisles. He told the guests that visitors to my childhood household fell into two categories: the quick, and the mute.
Ain’t that the truth. Snow has stopped play for anyone who drives. But even those within walking distance managed to fill the house with quick-fire happy week-before-Christmas babble.
The first ring on the doorbell heralded my nieces the Princesses, who were brandishing letters from Santa. It is a token of the level of organisation in my sister’s family that Santa actually writes back, politely mentioning the fact that the littlest princess has learnt to ride without stabilisers this year, and the eldest princess has distinguished herself at school.
Each letter was triumphantly read, and very quickly it became apparent a third cannonball had joined the fray. Alasdair has not got a letter from Santa. If he did, it is possible he would feed it to Macaulay or flush it down a convenient, adjacent toilet. He hurtled around everyone’s feet, a hectic meta-level where time travels at twice the speed of ours, at shoulder height.
The lanterns were lit, and the lights turned off, and we gawped appreciatively. Our little Cinderella garden almost gave a little curtsey. Phil looked suitably gratified.
At which point, we decided to feast.
In the living room, with a Christmas tree, a pantomime was running though its paces on the television. I have never heard of it before: it was modelled on Jack and Jill. I stopped trying to understand pantomimes long ago. They betray their mummer-roots. They make very little sense and are just a glorious excuse for lots of men dressing up as women and women dressing up as men, and rather exhilarating silliness and lots of shouting.
Needless to say, Big Al was right there with it all. The pantomime’s enthralling tractor beam drew him inexorably in.
His verbal engagement with the panto’s plot seemed a little shaky, however. He made do with stomping around the living room declaring he was Santa, and uttering the immortal soundbite “Ho, ho, ho.”
Maybe the sugar from those chocolate marshmallows had done it: or maybe it was just Al.
The dog cruised like a shark. It is an advantageous event for Macaulay, this lantern party. It is a buffet, and so large amounts of food are inadvertently dropped on the floor.
He is not partial to salad: and so, as we swept up afterwards, we noted several slices of cucumber and leaves of lettuce on the floor, but nary a sausage roll.
He also has several contraband dog feeders on hand.
I am a dog food control freak. He has his food, his water, and that’s it: no scraps.
But jeepers, those peepers. All the dog with the scruffiest moustache in the land has to do is turn those limpid pools in the direction of the weak, the vulnerable, and half their plate disappears miraculously down his well exercised gullet.
I estimate there were at least three such kindly souls there tonight, and that Macaulay has put on about two pounds round that already well padded girth.
Maddie asked to eat with the grown ups, and spent a lovely evening listening to the chatter of some of her favourite adults. She had set up the Christmas stereo single-handed, wiring and all, and classic Christmas songs joined with the velvet aroma of mulled wine as we stared out at that lantern-lit snowscape.
When the time came to go everyone put on their coats and wellies and gloves and hats and scarves, and went out into the snowy garden to get a gander, the other side of the glass from the buffet.
It was lovely. And we stood there longer than anyone meant to, in the little snow-capped garden with the coloured lanterns and the fire burning in the chimenea’s grate. If happiness were money we would be rich as Roosevelt.
The guests pottered off out of the garden gate, and we turned to go inside. And Felix declared, with trademark seven-year-old enthusiasm: “That was just the best Lantern Party ever.”
Twas the week before Christmas: and all round the house, the lanterns were flickering, not one was doused. The children retired to their bedroom with yawns: and Macaulay the dog ate the last of the prawns.
Kate Shrewsday 
Do you all look through triple glazing at the lanterns in the garden, or do you go and eat play freeze in the garden?
A bit of both….go out, wonder and freeze, then dash back inside to warm up…
“….rich as Roosevelt.” Does this refer to two American presidents?I know there was money form the long line of old patrician Dutch families of New York, but they certainly were nothing say to the wealth of the Kennedys, Rockefellers, Vanderbults, , Hill, Carnegie, etc.
Do you know Carl, I have no idea where the saying came from, or why the Roosevelts were singled out for such a comparison. I can only surmise that, unlike the Kennedys and the Vanderbilts, their name did not begin with an R.
A charming account of the evening.
LMAO @ yawns and prawns 🙂
Some rather random pre-christmas rhyming there, Cindy. Your dog charmed us all with those ears this morning….
Ah, Kate, I’m up late in the night here in our winter white land, and there you are with this wonderful rendition of your lantern party, making me laugh aloud at Phil’s antics (I have one just like him at home) and, of course, Big Al and Macauley and your own two charmers and the princesses and I feel already as if I know them all well by your words and your wit.
In our old house, Tom would decide to light the fire in our fireplace just before we were to sit down and eat. The fireplace was in the room where we ate. He would usually overdo it, of course, and the smoke detector would sound its shrill warning and smoke would pour back into the dining room and the doors and windows would have to be opened at 15 degrees and the candles would flicker while the meat got cold and he would look at me and say “what’s wrong”.
LOL That’s wonderful, Penny, and a strikingly familiar scene, all in the name of a few flickers of flame!
“If happiness were money we would be rich as Roosevelt.” 🙂
I’m sure Macaulay thought the whole thing was put on just for him.
I think Macaulay is under the impression the entire household is just for him, Zoe! A foot-drop fest!
Hi Kate I was just wondering if I were one of the garrulous relatives?
And I was struck by your last, poetic paragraph.
Great blog.
Love Dad
Dad, garrulous runs in our veins.
I’ll be a Keats yet.
Lovely, lovely lovely.
(May I come next year?! )
We were supposed to be out at supper last night in a village only 4 miles away, but IMPOSSIBLE!
Pseu, next year you really must come 🙂 Although snow almost stopped play….we are lucky to have enough people to make it still an occasion. The roads were absolutely treacherous here, still are.
Hey ho, Scrooge on the telly tonight….
Hmm, a lovely evening by the fire, now that Cyclo and Milly are returned from t’North
Beautiful description, Kate. I am a fire person too and the image of your Cinderella’s garden lights my imagination. And Macaulay must know my dog named Taka. I drove down my drive, maybe 200 feet long, and realized as I reached the mailboxes at the road that I had forgotten the Camembert and crackers. I left them in a cotton bag on the dining table. I made a “U-ey” ( turned around in the road ), drove back to the house, ran in the door and both my dogs looked up at me with a bit of shock – oh you’re back already! the empty wooden cheese tub already in tatters and no cheese anywhere.
I envy the snow – I heard on the news that both Gatwick and Heathrow were closed for a while. WOW.
Yes, that’s going to a hefty loss on the balance sheets and tens of thousands unable to get to see their loved ones. It was just very dense snow, impossible to fly in and out of. I laughed out loud at Taka’s acquisition….dogs will be dogs, won’t they?
Beautiful! I felt like I was there, a perhaps ghostly “Christmas Present” darting in an out between food and flame, and mingling with yourselves and guests. Perhaps you noticed me out of the corner of your eye? 😉
How could we miss you? You must have had a benign influence on the gathering. Make sure you come next year too, Ruth 😀
Thanks for allowing this Texan (66 F. today) to share your garden dressed in pristine, glistening glamor, and your lanterns and chimenea and garrulous family and mooching Macaulay. Just what Christmas ought to be.
Not that I couldn’t do with a dose of your Texan sun, Kathy….we’re beginning to look pale and interesting here 🙂 Enjoy the week.
I’m late to the party . . . for good reason. I like to clear the decks of other posts so that I can savor every word of Kate’s. So, you see, it’s your fault for making your posts so luminous.
A few of my favorites lines:
“The garden has eschewed its general damp disgruntled midwinter air, and shrugged on an evening dress of pristine, glistening glamour.”
” . . .if we were depending on Phil for his usual debonair sparkle it would be a flat social occasion indeed. I fear it would be one of those stare-into-your-teacup-and-pray-someone-says-something gatherings.”
(At this point, I snorted. Out loud. Twice.)
“It is a token of the level of organisation in my sister’s family that Santa actually writes back, politely mentioning the fact that the littlest princess has learnt to ride without stabilisers this year, and the eldest princess has distinguished herself at school.”
(I used to do just this for my nieces and nephews . . . before they grew too old to accept my signature for Santa’s.)
“[Pantomines] make very little sense and are just a glorious excuse for lots of men dressing up as women and women dressing up as men, and rather exhilarating silliness and lots of shouting.”
{Sounds like M.P. and the Flying Circus}.
“The dog cruised like a shark.”
{At one New Year’s Eve party, our Great Dane consumed the remains of a turkey carcass inadvertently left unattended . . . on the top of the refrigerator.)
” . . . classic Christmas songs joined with the velvet aroma of mulled wine as we stared out at that lantern-lit snowscape.”
(Velvet aroma . . . enough said.)
“And we stood there longer than anyone meant to, in the little snow-capped garden with the coloured lanterns and the fire burning in the chimenea’s grate. If happiness were money we would be rich as Roosevelt.”
{That satisfied pause at the end of an evening well done.)
Have I mentioned I enjoyed this post? I did. Immensely.
Nancy, the most heart-warming comment, thank you for those lovely words! And I’m so glad you enjoyed this. It is always the family posts that people love above all others. They need no research except observation. They write themselves. They’re like the schoolgirl who does absolutely no work and then sails through the exam, leaving all the scholarly posts glowering in badly-disguised envy.
But it was a very nice party 🙂
I expect that many writers are indeed envious of your facility with words. 🙂
I myself avoid envy by making it an all or nothing proposition ~ unless and until I want to step wholesale into your snow-covered, lantern lit, garden, while rooting around in the recycling, keeping an eye on the turkey, and admonishing guests for feeding McCauley, there is no cause for envy . . .
Just plenty of room of admiration.
My scholarly posts feel much better now, Nancy 🙂 Maybe they will make a reappearance…
I did not mean to compare myself with others – just to compare the two kinds of posts I tend to write, which I always think of in my own head as the family posts and the scholarly posts. The latter take more work – but rarely get the same ratings 🙂
Beautiful post, Kate – I can imagine the snow added a special sparkle to the evening. How lovely.
Sunshine xx
It was lovely. Hope you’re keeping warm in the city 🙂