I am becoming so lonely it is a wonder that I haven’t dug out all my old teddy bears and started talking to them. If anybody would like to give me some love, I could really do with it. *Sigh.* I’m also beginning to truly detest the phrase ‘That’s your change and receipt’, which I probably say at least a hundred times a day when I’m at M&S, if not more, although ‘Would you like any cashback?’ is a very close second. (Today’s most annoying question was ‘Where are the Christmas puddings?’) Henry suggested, in remedy to this, that I should do what his 7-year-old son does, which is to just say everything backwards. But that would probably just lead to confusion and unnecessary queuing at the tills, so maybe I won’t. I thought it was quite a good idea though.

Marks and Spencer has, over the past week or so, gone completely Christmas crazy. It is insane. There are traffic jams in the food-hall caused by trolleys and pushchairs and little old ladies, and it’s impossible to get anywhere with a stack of food to put out without saying ‘sorry, sorry, excuse me, sorry’, and bumping into people then waiting patiently while others get out the way, and even when you’ve got all the way round to the mince pies putting them out takes twice as long as it should do because it all just turns into one giant game of directing the customers round the store, except of course the bastards have moved everything round, because it’s Christmas, so nobody no longer knows where anything is. Argh! I will be glad when it’s all over.

This is certainly turning out to be the most anti-climatic Christmas that I’ve ever had. Without having a carol service or three to sing in, or wind band playing twined in tinsel during the final assembly, or carol busking in Windsor and caroling round Englefield Green, or that end-of-term excitement, or the choir Christmas dinner, or even a holiday, it’s just not the same. Although I did manage get along to my old school’s carol service, and aside from a John Rutter overload that was pretty good. I brought my old music teacher Mr O. a drink afterwards, which in turn led to a very sweet offer of Sunday lunch at his (he said I sounded in need of a little company, heh), and so this Sunday I went round for an afternoon of food, duets and tea. On one level this was simply bizarre - I hardly had one proper conversation with him during my seven years at school - and on another level simply really nice. (My sister just thought it was weird.)

I have discovered over the past month or so that I am the sort of person who will always get stopped in the street. By people asking for directions, or (as it was this evening) by someone who’d never got a train by herself before and wanted to make sure she didn’t get on the wrong one, or by people who want to take away all my money, for charity, or insurance, or something else. But the thing is, it’s always me. Always. And I don’t know why. Maybe I just look susceptible, or rich, or gullible. Or, alternatively, un-intimidating, friendly and approachable, which is great, and all, but it turns walking through Norwich city-centre into a game of dodge-the-clipboards, and I feel guilty every time I have to explain that, yes, I know there are children starving in Africa, but I already donate to Oxfam, and if I say yes to you then I’ll say yes to everyone, and I honestly don’t have any money, and why can’t you pick on someone else? What is it about my appearance? Is it the way I walk? Is it my hair? I really don’t know. It’s odd. And I’m not sure if it’s good or not.

A few weeks ago now we were driving through Attleborough and passed a fish and chip van, which had a huge drawing of a grinning fish on the side, wearing a tie and smoking a cigar, and above it someone had written the words: ‘The Codfather’.

Classic.

Favourite Mower Parts of the Week: clutch shoe, gear bevel, and mulching blades.
Favourite Mower: Little Wonder Blower.

Oh, and a very Happy Christmas to everyone!