Sunday 25th December 2016

From Her downwards, everybody is ill, including the Gay Mother who is finally able to enjoy a little smoked salmon and took two miniature mince pies from Fortnums (gift of Anthony Mottram of Prague) at lunch. At least she’s comfortable by the fire surrounded by antiques.

Fur has been huge for me this Christmas. I’ve never before understood how important fur is for celebration in winter. The second thing has been ‘How Beautiful are the Feet’ by Handel, which I never heard in The Messiah before although it must always have been there.

But to the Baby Jesus. I note he is never ascribed any characteristics. Even though new-born, most babies are at once said to be ‘calm’ or ‘bad-tempered’ or ‘incredibly ugly.’ But the Baby Jesus is just a blank of perfection. Nothing has actually happened. He’s had the big achievement of getting born and lies there is the auto-lit manger. Time is suspended – in the Christmas card version with a poor little robin in the snowy wastes and various people v. snug indoors, also doing nothing, usually out of sight.

So Christmas has at its heart this emptiness, which it takes some time to recover from.

May you all be blessed at Christmas when you need it most. A very Happy Christmas to you all.