25^th December 2009

I am with the Gay Mother, 85, in the country’s depths for Christmas. She is in lilac tweed for warmth and complaining that no butcher’s now has its own bacon-slicer.

The organist could not get down the icy hill so Church was curtailed and only two carols sung unaccompanied as if we were early settlers in some far-flung place.

The Vicar said that Jesus is knocking at our hearts, craving admission but also he has four mansions. Not sure why he is so desperate for accommodation elsewhere. What’s wrong with his own place?

I am led to ponder deeply the message of Christmas for Poor Little Rich Gays. At a glance it is repulsive. The frightful stable, the eschewing of Heaven’s luxury, the coming down to Earth – not what we want to hear at all. But I recall when I go to the Lahore Kebab House (London’s cheapest restaurant) with the Multis or those times on our Tuscan summer holiday when we dined in simple trats. Or those little pieces I have bought from Topshop or Zara. We are closer to Jesus than might appear. The lowly stable would have been rather a different matter without all God’s lovely stocks and shares and Heaven’s marble halls to ascend to at the finish. So, for PLRGs, it is an adventure and a scream to descend provided you can get back to the Vola taps and the Bruce McBain-designed kitchen sooner or later. On the whole, sooner.