I’m usually better at letting go of Christmas than this, but the tree’s still up. Most years, I get sick of Christmas and all its accoutrements by December 26th. And I did, but by New Year’s Eve, I felt all Christmassy again and didn’t want it to leave. I blame the English.
Christmas was lovely and uneventful. In a good way. 2009 was uneventful in a scary there’s no work way: Christmas was uneventful in an I didn’t go anywhere and watched lots of great TV way. I didn’t touch any work-related paperwork (so I’m way behind) and I tried not to have a single productive thought. I was very good at that and the resting. That was lovely. Oh, and there was rambling! Have I told you about the rambling? That is where the English came in.
You lot are top at the rambling. We didn’t really have it in Ireland when I lived there. You either had the casual stroller at one end of the spectrum (out for a New Year’s jaunt in their Christmas scarf and inappropriate footwear) or, at the other end, the professional hill-walker and orienteering champion who wouldn’t be seen dead out of doors without crampons and ski-socks and a compass.
But the middle ground – ordinary folk in wellies and stout shoes finding walkways together and huddling round maps – ramblers, we didn’t have those. And now I am one. I have been twice in the last week. On New Year’s day I rambled with my fabulous New Year’s hosts to a 1000 year old church. It was snowy and sunny and magic. Yesterday, I rambled in Hertfordshire with people I mostly didn’t know and my dog. He was very excited at the prospect of getting really muddy while flirting with lots of new people. Like owner, like dog.
Oh how we rambled! We’re going to ramble again! I feel so at home with all this that I think it’s time to let the Home Office know that I’ve made the full and final transition to Enid Blyton character. So, can I marry an American here now? Top hole! Jolly good.
