Aubade?

Waking at four to soundless dark ... well, not exactly. It was seven and the sky had whispers of light in it. Mustn't let my enthusiasm for Larkin obscure the facts. Fact is, I woke and found myself reviewing the past two weeks with the awful clarity that dawn brings - and this is what, unclouded by warm fuzzy feelings or distorted by immediacy, came out:

The miracle of our having decided to invite our eight-voice choir to join us for the carol service in a year when so many of the home-grown singers were under par - and the joy that so many people came to hear them on a day when several of our own congregation didn't.

The enjoyment of the church decorating day, including the therapy (for me) of polishing the silver.

The realisation that as far as I'm concerned Advent is more productive than Christmas - a variant on the travelling hopefully idea?

The disappointment that the nave lights were left on at the Midnight Mass. Despite the fact that we were all holding candles, the relentlessly bleak lights killed any magic for most of us in the pews, and I was distracted right up to the Peace by wondering if someone had just forgotten to put them off. Big mistake. Probably someone complained about darkness.

This last thought so irritated me that I got up well before it was light. I'm glad now, as it's a glorious morning and I may well go out. Feel better now ...

Bird of dawning

Every year around 10pm on Christmas Eve I think I won't survive the combination of cooking and church, and every year the delight of it all takes over. Last night, Mr B and I stuffed the turkey - rescued from the shed, where it had reposed since Saturday, there being no room in the fridge - and headed out to Midnight Mass. The church was lit entirely by candles apart from the red overhead heaters, and seemed to be full of young people - all former pupils - back home for the holiday. The holy smoke was the best I've seen in years, and the coughers surpassed themselves.The excellent innovation of sherry at the back of the church afterwards soon sorted them out.

Here's another wee quotation for the virtual mars bar hunters:

Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated
The bird of dawning singeth all night long:

Last night I finally went to bed at 3am, and outside my window a bird was singing - not the neurotic oyster-catchers down on the shore, where the lights on the promenade confuse the poor things into squeaking all night, but a real, singing bird whose song continued until I was past listening. Coincidence?

Brilliant anyway.