275. Spring

It's not here yet. But it keeps showing us a little bit of leg, which is remarkably titillating and wonderful. The expectation is all with this particular season, as all too often April and May will just be wet and dull - but at least the days will not be short and dark and there probably won't be snow. And for all those things we say thank you and welcome.

274. When God Was A Rabbit

This aggravatingly wonderful and beautifully written debut novel by Sarah Winman is pure joy on the page. It's funny and sad and pin-sharp and warm and dark and I wanted to pull it over me like a duvet. It has given me inspiration and challenge and the great satisfaction of reading a book for the second time and finding yet more within it.

One day, if I'm lucky, I'll write a book as good as this one. Til then, I'll keep it by me - as a sort of talisman.

273. Bags and Wallets

The title of this blog post alone will have been enough to make Herself and the Parent laugh - I guarantee it. They're probably thinking it's about time I confessed to this particular predilection.

I am a bagandwalletaholic. It's true. And what's peculiar is that the bags are all similar and the wallets are all similar.

I'm searching for the perfect 'one', you see.

Rucksacks, I have a few. Yes. Then again, too few to mention. What can I say? Buying bags and wallets makes me happy because I don't have to try them on. And you can have lots of them without feeling guilty.

That's my excuse, and I'm sticking to it.

272. Christmas Carols

My little primary school was attached to a posh church (not physically), which explains why we had a sung eucharist every Wednesday, an annual Easter play that was epic in its ambition and portent, and spent months getting ready for Christmas.

I'm bitter about the Easter thing because I always had to be the narrator and wasn't ever allowed to be Jesus, which caused much junior teeth gnashing. I'm such a diva.

Anyway, must try to move on from these early setbacks.

The school tradition was that every Christmas the top class sang the descant. Which, you know, is the high harmony sung during some carols - Hark the Herald Angels Sing and Once in Royal David's City being notable examples. They're not complicated, but they have to be right or the whole thing descends into chaos. And it can sound wonderful. That last year was fun.

I can't sing the descant any more, because I'm now a baritone (or something scarily similar). But carols are still a great pleasure. I failed to get myself along to a carol concert this year and I regret it. Christmas wasn't the same without a blast of singing (and, possibly, God - but that's a more troubling question) and burbling along in the car is not a satisfactory alternative.

Ideally, I'd like:

A pretty church (St James', Piccadilly, is a good one)
A proper vicar (no happy clappies) but with a sense of humour
A choir (but no ruffles or rolled 'r's)
Some readings (John Julius Norwich if we're being proper, or Spike Milligan for entertainment)
All the classic carols
and
In the Bleak Midwinter - the proper version

So maybe the next few Christmases will see me go on a search for that elusive combination. I suppose I could always whistle the descant - the choir would love that...

271. New Year's Resolution

I don't usually bother with New Year's resolutions. I feel bad enough about something or other most of the time, why add fuel to the flames?

But this year I have one resolution that I am determined to keep.

This blog WILL end in 2013. 

I only have 94 entries to go! And those of you still clinging on deserve some closure. So take my hand, and over the next weeks we will walk to the edge of the page...

270. New Glasses

The most annoying thing about being a speccy four-eyes is the need every few years to have a new pair of glasses. It is also the best thing about it. (Other good things are: excellent bug defence shields in summer, my goodness Miss Jones you're beautiful, hides bags, wrinkles, hangovers)

Face furniture is a complicated and expensive business. If, like me, your glasses are on your face all the time, you want them to be both stylish and, ultimately, forgettable. If the one thing you remember about me is my glasses I really am living my life all wrong.

I found a company that was happy to send me four pairs of frames to try on at home. Herself would like a casting vote on everything in my life, but insists on approval of anything remotely sartorial. So the frames arrived, and BF was there too. And we were all a bit drunk. So they were more than usually frank and unexpurgated on which were the stylish frames and which were so AWFUL that if I DARED to buy them they would NEVER speak to me or agree to be SEEN with me EVER AGAIN.

I won't tell you if I heeded their advice, or not. I chose some new frames, and as I type they are waiting for me at home. My old glasses gave up the ghost six hours after I bought the new ones, and are being held together by sellotape and prayer.

As of tomorrow I'll have a new face. That's how it feels! For about 14 hours. Then I get my normal face back, with added benefits. And this time, I've got two different pairs to play with!

269. China tea cups

As a result of the odd dropped hint, I now have a small collection of pretty china cups and saucers. My favourite (among many favourites) is a beautiful Limoges breakfast cup, given to me by the Parent last Christmas.

Tea, even humble Yorkshire in a bag, tastes better out of a good china cup. Mugs are fine, and I'm barely scraping the surface of possible tea-based obsessions and peculiarities, but if you want a finer experience, it has to be china.

Throughout my childhood, there would be a proper 'tea' at the weekend. A big pot of tea, toast and jam and sometimes even a Madeira cake made by Dad. Eaten in front of a real fire, they were quiet, harmonious times – and Herself and I repeat the tradition as often as possible. We don't have a real fire, sadly, but the dog curls up in front of the halogen thing very happily, which looks right, at least.

This weekend we had china cups of tea, a crumpet with butter and a mince pie, because it is the season to be merry.