I hope you've had one? Y'know, one sublime moment or a special surprise which over the past few days has made you stop what you're doing and shout "Wow!" No? Well keep your beak up, it could still happen. The "Wow" element happened on December 21st, my traditional solo flight to the Leicester Cathedral Carol Service for a bit of a sing song in the old fashioned, non-PC way. There, I can sing as loud as I like without anyone complaining or calling Gareth Malone's choir police for help; I can dose off like one of the choristers did or engage in a bit of people-watching whilst my shredded nerves settled down for the holiday season. Perched on the end of a row, I let out an audible sigh at the sight of the glistening tree and nodded in respect towards the tomb of Richard III who's in a much better place these days. Ahhh ... I felt lighter already.
Volunteering to sing descant to my tenor this year was Valerian who'd had a spectacularly bad year and needed an injection of festive cheer too. Sensibly, I'd left Alphonse in The Nest but Valerian had dragged her husband along to see if we could kick a bit of the 'Bah-Humbug' out of him, but he remained resolutely unmoved. As always, there were tears during 'O Little Town of Bethlehem' mainly from our rusty voices choked with fond memories of absent friends but we persevered. Imagine my surprise when the Deputy Dean of Leicester wished us all a "Wow" moment at Christmas. My head said "Yeah, right" and my heart felt otherwise. 2016 had started well but not wow!
Admittedly, through October and November I wondered if I was going to feel anything for the coming festivities except skint and exhausted? I was both by Bonfire Night but remained hopeful in the face of darker nights and brussels sprouts until I came out of work, staggered to the car and dropped my left bum cheek on a sleepy wasp who'd planned to sleep off the winter nestled into the crevice of my driving seat. It was my first ever sting and the unfortunate wasp's last; the little git had pierced my work uniform like a taser and I drove home in tears, mainly of humiliation. Worse it itched for a month.
Dust in large quantities makes me itch too. In October, I'd thrown my full weight behind increased hours in Medical Records and, despite having some measure of seniority these days, I have been filing. Constantly, mind-numbingly filing. Putting away the same notes we'd spent only two days previously pulling out of the ancient racking. I was still calm of mind at this point and reasoned that 'It's giving me thinking time.' I would keep on writing the epic work in my head and it would be finished by Christmas. HaHaHa! Like that's going to happen and as we ambled into November, our 18 year old fridge-freezer rattled it's last after I'd spent an entire Saturday morning cleaning it out ready for the annual food shopping extravaganza. This was possibly the same day as the Peugeot's exhaust pipe blew it's last like Gabriel's trumpet, but its non-standard part took all morning to replace instead of the usual 15 minutes Mr Tyres Exhaust-Pipes had initially predicted. HoHoHo!
And so the dust of ages took its toll on my eyes, bunging up my sinuses and covering my wonderful new specs in cack. Originally when I had my eyes tested in June, I'd picked some trendy Ted Baker frames and ultra thin, super lightweight lenses which looked great. Unhappily, once they were on my face, I couldn't see much despite the High Street optician's best efforts to tweak them. He put my lack of vision down to my 'difficulty in adapting to varifocals'. I put it down to utter tripe as I've worn varifocals for two decades and never had a problem 'adapting'. By the end of October, I'd returned them for a full refund unable to see car number plates in the dark. Then a stye popped up, a bonus infection discovered after a corridor consultation with a senior nurse. She pulled me aside and barked.
"What's wrong with your eye?"
"Don't ask." I muttered and tried to push past her. "It's just sore that's all."
"Right!" Sister St Nickie felt my collar and dragged me struggling into a treatment room. Thrusting a phial of liquid into my hand she commanded me to 'Flush it with this!' and 'Buy some anti-biotic drops.' I did both and it made no difference but I did feel better being told off by someone who cared.
It took until December pulled up its socks before my eyes were sorted. I can see perfectly well now with my new chocolate-coloured Italian Murano specs with their classy bling at the sides. I did a little "Wow' when I put them on for the first time as they're cool; not hipster at all. And to celebrate I showed up in Ashby [de la Zouch] for a cup of Costa coffee with Marie-Celeste wearing my poppy-red coat with the black buttons, black boots and a big smile. I felt elegant and it's been a while, believe me. I'd not seen the M&S 'Mrs Santa' advert had I? By this time, everyone else in the UK had seen it though. Queueing for a medium macchiato with extra chocolate, I looked down to see a little girl staring up at me, grinning.
"Hello little one ... where's your Mummy?" She just giggled, toes turned in and bobble hat shaking. Then bold as brass, she came out with it.
"Hello Mrs Santa." Marie-Celeste keeled over laughing as did half of Costa. I was the M&S advert personified and this little girl had massive expectations of red glittering trainers waiting under the tree. Not wanting to disappoint her in any way, I told her a whopper with a very serious face.
"You will have a "Wow" Christmas and Santa will bring you everything you wish for." Oh, may her parents and the Choirs of Angels please forgive me?
Christmas preparations became even more furious from that point onwards and I bogged myself down with buying a new frock for our party night at Shearsby Bath. I snatched a great little black number for £3.50 from the bargain rail in House of Fraser; it said 'damaged' on the label but really it needed major reconstruction. Shame it didn't fit when I got it home and I had to race back to Debenham's for an alternative bargain frock; this only needed a sparkly cardigan as I didn't have time for underarm shaving or any of that nonsense. Overall, I had a great time provided I shut out the carping of the others comparing this year to last year's party when the food was fresh not frozen, the drinks were cheaper and the band was much, much better, so I won't be going again. Not a "Wow" for them either.
Time was running out and with a list of a thousand things to do although I was slumped in front of The Yorkshire Vet with a large sherry; I have a massive crush on the Vets, Julian and Peter, they're superstars. Stupidly I'd decided to bake cakes instead of writing cards to people who don't want to do it either and next morning was icing buns at 6.00am instead of finding a flashing jumper to wear for the hospital's seasonal lunch. Hours later, when I finally sat down in a room on my own for a bit of much-needed head space, Amber popped in to show me pictures of her cat at the very moment I burst into tears of exhaustion.
"Can anything improve Christmas 2016?" I blubbed into a chunk of blue hospital tissue as she squeezed my shoulders.
"Nothing short of two weeks in the Caribbean ... sorry Raven." I reasoned that Burleigh's Gin just might help, although alcohol isn't welcome at a Muslim wedding. The Prosecco would have to wait too.
Our wonderful neighbours' youngest daughter was marrying the cousin of the chap across the road. They knew each other by sight of course but after a formal introduction in August, the two families moved as one to secure the right venue on the right date. Her oldest brother told me the amazing news.
"It's on Christmas Eve ... you are both coming, aren't you?" He's a bit of a joker obviously.
"Why Christmas Eve? That's mental" He shrugged.
"Nothing ever happens over Christmas does it? So it's perfect, innit?" He had a point.
Luckily, I didn't need a frock for this event because I wore the special one I'd had for a decade, hiding in my wardrobe waiting for just the right party. I nearly gave it to charity five years ago because it's too blingy for Leicester; happily it looked fine with a long-sleeved t-shirt and leggings underneath. And I'd taken advice from chums Sandra and Fanna who told me loads of insider gossip: a) don't be on time because it won't start on time, b) eat yoghurt before you go and c) spicy food will mess with your pale English insides so drink the pink tea at the end. Okay!! I briefed Alphonse with the same rigour as 'M' would lecture James Bond about to embark on a mission casually leaving out the bit about the pink tea. Yes, it looks and tastes like a used surgical stocking. Yes, I tried it scolding hot. No, I won't be drinking it again thank you. The whole evening was a blast and when the bride finally came on to the stage looking like a Bollywood princess, we all had a massive "WOW Moment" that made our Christmas truly special. Thanks Mrs Santa.
Tip of the Beak: And so this is Christmas, for everyone. And if you're in the sales and hear George Michael singing about his "Last Christmas" please have a kind thought for the man who had the voice of an angel and a crate of demons on his back. Perhaps his band should have been named "Wow" and not “Wham".
I wish you all the very best for the Festive season and a "Wow" moment of your own - there's still plenty of time y'know?
From Raven, with love .x.
