Good news:

 

         My Christmas dinner is here, delivered by a daughter, I think. I told her how anxious I had been, and she said her father had been as bad. “Where are they? Where are they?” all last weekend.

 

         I’ve made the cranberry sauce. I’ll give Helen hers when she comes tomorrow. I was surprised to find that cloves, cinnamon sticks and powdered ginger were at the front of my over-extensive spice cupboard, and less surprised to find port (2 tablespoons required) in front of the drinks. Do I cook nothing else?

 

         I feel there was something else, but can’t think of it. Helen came, and we got around the garden.

 

All the rest:

 

         The worst is, the King’s College Choir tomorrow won’t be broadcast live. That’s new – today’s decision. The BBC, including the World Service, has been advertising it all week. No congregation, they said, but at least the choir would be there as usual. That’s been the centre point of all my British Christmasses, the brief news summary at 3 pm, the hush, and then that boy’s voice: “Once in royal…”  And however dreadful the preparations, the card-writing, the present-wrapping, suddenly it was all over. Everything was all right.

 I might as well stay in bed tomorrow. (I saw a programme once, not long before whatever Christmas it was, in which a former Boy was interviewed. The boys don’t know, until the red light goes on and the choirmaster points to one of them, which one it will be. He found, he said, for a terrifying second, that he couldn’t remember the words.)

 

         I feel there was a lot else, but can’t think of it, or can’t report it. The virus news is bad.

 

Comment:

 

         Grazie, Lisa, per i tuoi auguri. Per un momento, ho pensato che la mia insegnante sia qui! I reciprocate all your wishes, to you and everybody: a happy Christmas, a good New Year. It can’t be worse.

 

         You don’t have time to read this stuff over the holidays, even if I do have time to write it. I’ll see you again on the 27^th or so.