Whilst my head may be thinking that the past week has gone all too quickly, my body can’t wait for all the festivities to be over. Not only do I still have the last lingers of a cold, the amount of meat and alcohol consumed over Christmas has left my guts feeling, to put it mildly, a little sensitive. Not getting to bed until the wee hours every night hasn’t helped either but the bags under my eyes and bloated belly are unmistakable signs that it has, for the most part, been a bloody brilliant Noël. I’m pretty sure we will see in the New Year in similar style tonight even though it won’t be the whole family singing Auld Lang Syne out of tune as my sister and her lot left on Friday.
And so it was that for the first time in three years, Mumo had all her offspring and their offspring and other halves at the table at the same time. It’s quite a feat considering one came from Australia, 3 from Kenya, one from Chad, a couple from the UK and 4 from New York. Add in myself, Denis, Simon and Alba and you get 16 trying to find a place to sit comfortably in the living room. Unfortunately, I got the floor cushion as I’m always the last one in the building so to speak and my sister did her level best to stay at least 2 metres away from me at all times. But I minded my manners and kept schtum as I promised Mumo I would. I ought to be used to her aversion to my presence by now but it still upsets me, the one upside to being side-lined being Callum who knows his mum so well and gives the best hugs in the world. And gave her an Australian ‘cowboy’ hat which she absolutely loves. Putting all the death stares aside, the few days that the Collins/Stewart/Plevin clan were together were full of rowdiness, constant banter and sides aching from so much laughter. And food. And wine. It’ll probably be another few years before we are all together again and I am trying very hard not to think about Cal returning Down Under in a few weeks so these rare moments of family are priceless.
Having 16 for Christmas lunch on Boxing Day, Moth who is traditionally late for everything arrived on the 25th, had required months of pre-planning. The meat and potatoes were cooked over at mine and the rest in the main house. I roped Denis into cooking because he’s such a good chef and actually likes slaving over a hot stove and I don’t. He did himself proud and produced restaurant-worthy platters of lamb and chicken with lashings of roast potatoes. My only contribution was the gravy I’d made the day before which left everyone amused as Pop would always berate Mumo for leaving it to the last minute. Then, once the pudding was eaten and the 2 Buches de Noël were decimated, we all plonked ourselves around a garden bench on an unseasonably warm day for the necessary photos. Moth captured some great shots although I couldn’t help but slap myself for drinking red wine beforehand. Everyone had nice white teeth except for yours truly.
And so as the last vestiges of 2023 tick down with the clock and thoughts of resolutions and diets pass through heads, I wish one and all a Happy New Year. Who knows what 2024 will bring even if I did take a gander at my zodiac and the Chinese one too – apparently I’m set for a period of personal growth and success but have to watch my stress levels. Whoever wrote that has never lived in the idyll that is Rouffiac. I hope everyone has a right good knees up tonight and drains the last of the drinks cabinet in style. Bonne Année à tous!
““For last year’s words belong to last year’s language, and next year’s words await another voice.” (T.S. Eliot)
Widow plus woofs 