Oh, dear! Some presents did not arrive, thanks to Yodel!

The Yodel delivery company has caused much angst and heartache by managing to not deliver many presents and food orders for Christmas!

This story tells you all about it and what you can do about it if it has impacted upon you:

http://thatschristmas.blogspot.com/2011/12/dont-yell-for-yodel.html

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year from Notamormon!

Have a fantastic, Mormonism free Christmas, New Year and 2012, in so far as you can!

This will take you to a rather nice online Christmas greeting card

http://thatschristmas.blogspot.com/2011/12/merry-christmas-and-happy-new-year.html

Good bye for 2011. See you in 2012!

Hard to believe, but Christmas is nearly here, again!

Yes, Christmas is nearly here, again!

I have got most of the presents sorted out -need to buy some wrapping paper, however- and we will need some Vodka for our Lithuanian neighbour/friend, plus some cards and one or two other items.

Got to get the turkey and the vegetables, some beer and table wine, some Champagne and that's about it!

We have had a problem with some items being stolen before they could be delivered
http://thats-business.blogspot.com/2011/12/unknown-number-of-christmas-parcels.html

Too late to deal with that now, though.

But all sorts of fun is going on here!
http://thatschristmas.blogspot.com

and here!
http://thatsfoodanddrink.blogspot.com

Hope you all have a great Christmas and a good New Year!

Heading toward Christmas

It's late October and as we head toward the festival of Christmas it seems strange to look back on the year behind us.

Last Christmas I missed my company Chirstmas party because I fell ill with the flu. Colleagues who had not had the flu shot were much worse off than me and spent the entire Christmas and New Year ill in bed.

The year seemed to go very quickly and in September I found myself in California. Something I'd always wanted to do but never thought I would achieve.

California is a very beautiful country / state and I would like to visit it again. Will I be able to do so? Maybe not, but we shall see.

Christmas time, again!

Well, here we are, Christmas time again.

My wife has made a Christmas cake, we have several bottles of Champagne laid in and some bottles of red wine, some white, some beers and lagers, some fruit juices and cordials and plenty of Cola and lemonade. We are expecting guests for our Christmas celebrations.

We also have a Christmas pudding, some Paski Sir Ewe's milk cheese (to die for!) fromCroatia and all the makings of a Christmas feast.

We will be making contributions to charities that look after the homeless in our town. Not everyone is as fortunate as us and we all need to do just a little bit to help alleviate the suffering of others. And in that way we can ensure that there is some Christ in Christmas.

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, folks!

A Christmas Story

A Christmas killing in Birmingham

It was a bitterly cold December morning in the 1920s in the city of Birmingham, a few days before Christmas. I cursed the fact that I had to break the ice in the deep enamel bowl in the brewhouse in my backyard before I could get to the water beneath to have a quick shave and a wash. -But all the same, I knew I was one of the lucky ones in our street. At least I still had a job to go to.

I don’t know why I always used to put the water into the old enamel bowl, last thing at night ready for my morning wash. But my Father had always done it and his Father before him.

Over the years I have concluded that we Brummies like tradition. It helps us to establish who we are and where we are in relation to the world beyond Smethwick, I suppose!

It was just after five am by the watch on my Albert, as I tucked it back into the watch pocket on my waistcoat. I pulled my overcoat about me and tightened my muffler around my neck. I had to look after my chest. Ever since my three years in the trenches I 'd had a bad chest. I hadn’t been caught up in a gas attack like a lot of the other fellows, but three years up to your knees in mud, filthy water and the blood of your mates does something to a man.

It had snowed in the night. Not much, just a couple of inches or so. Certainly not as much as we used to get in the olden days!

The snow was crisp and it sparkled in the yellow glow of the gas mantles in the street. Not so long ago at this time of day the whole street would already have been criss-crossed with the tramp of many pairs of feet going to and from work. But now mine were the only footprints as I crunched through the fresh snow.

I was only halfway down our street when I almost stumbled over the body. It had obviously lain on the pavement since before the snow had started, as it was completely covered in a white blanket of snow.

I knew it would cost me -perhaps even a day’s pay, or more- but there are some things a man must do.

When I looked down, I noticed the blood had not so much congealed, but frozen to the pavement and the snow that had touched it had been stained a deep crimson.

I crouched down and touched the body. As I thought, dead. He was stiff and it was not rigor mortis, but the cold that had done it. The police very rarely came down our street, so I knew no bobby on his beat would see the body. The nearest the police ever came -unless there was trouble at the Cross and Bishop- was a small square two streets away. I’d have to find a policeman there, if I could.

I set off as fast as I dared, arriving a few minutes later having nearly slipped over a couple of times.

I had supposed rightly. The policeman was stamping his feet trying to keep warm in the heat that was barely seeping from the doorway of Rogers’ bakery.

“Officer, I was just setting off for work and I found a dead body in Collins Street, just round the corner.”

“Who might you be?”

“David Shakeshaft. I live in Collins Street. I was just on my way to work.”

He followed me without a further word.

He looked at the body before he stooped down and brushed some of the snow from the face of the corpse with a gloved hand. It’s straggly moustache was stiffer than it had ever been in life.

“Been here quite a while, with all this snow on him. Do you recognise him?”

I suppose it was a sort of a shock at first, when I saw the face. But I quickly recovered.

“Yes, it’s a neighbour. Not a near neighbour, but a neighbour all the same. His name’s Bill Sampson. Lives four or five doors up from here, almost opposite the opening of Merry Court. He's got a wife and a couple of kiddies. -At least, he did have.”

The officer took my details and asked me questions about Sampson.

I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, not even of people like Sampson, but I had to tell him as much as I could.

“Looks like he’s been beaten” opined the policeman. “Quite badly too.”

I dug my hands deeper into my pockets to keep the cold out.

The policeman took out his whistle and gave two sharp, piercing blasts that must have woken everyone for several streets around. I was asked to go to the police station to make a statement. I left before anyone else turned up in our usually quiet street.

After I made my statement several times over, they let me leave the station and in the early afternoon I got to my place of work.

The works owner, Mr Tweedy, was angry with me, until I told him what had happened. Mr Tweedy was of the old school. Besides which, like me, he had served in the Warwicks in the Great War and he understood things like duty and honour. But he had been an officer and I had been a lowly corporal.

“Well done, Shakeshaft” he had said. “Of course, I could dock you a whole day’s pay, but I’ll only dock you half a day, but get on with some work and finish at the regular time.”

I thanked him and did as he had told me, though my mind was not really on it.

Of course, by the time I got back everyone was talking about the body which had long since been taken to the city morgue. The snow was now almost entirely gone. The women of the street were standing around in little knots, talking, whilst keeping an eye on their children who were playing in the remains of the snow as the gas lamps were lit by the old man who had done the job ever since I could remember.

The men were waiting for the Cross and Bishop to open, muttering about the murder.

We all met in the snug.

“So, he’s dead is he?”

“Yes.”

They looked at me. As if they expected me to do something.

I took a sip of my mild before setting the pot back down on the scarred, round table before me.

“What are we going to do?”

That was said by a small sharp-featured man who I only knew as Billy, who worked as a bookies runner.

I shrugged. “What do you suggest?”

He glanced at me. “Will they know who did it?”

Big Bob growled; “Not if we all keep quiet.”

Tommy Moore looked up with his naturally sad face even more morose than usual. Longer and worse than Livery Street on a wet November morning.

“We only meant to give him a bit of a beating. Teach him a lesson, like. We didn’t mean for him to die,” he whined.

“What are his widow and children going to do?” That was Taffy Ellis, a small, practically-minded Welshman who had come to Birmingham some years before, looking for work. Even though he had only been sporadically successful, somehow he had never managed to return home to his beloved Welsh valleys. Apparently times were even harder, there. God help them, was all I could say to that!

“I think we should hold a collection for them. It’s the least we can do,” I replied.

“Yes, the least we can do, seeing as how we murdered her husband,” moaned Tommy.

“Anyone who talks like that is being stupid! We didn’t murder him. For all we know, the cold might have killed him. Or maybe someone happened along and robbed him.”

Although my mind was in a turmoil, I tried to sound as calm as I could. I didn’t want them panicking. I had seen men crack in the trenches. Any one of these lads could crack and they’d see us all dancing at the end of a rope in Winson Green nick. -I’d have to try and steady them down.

“Keep calm, lads. There’s no point in us getting in a state. and keep your voices down. -We don’t want everyone knowing our business.

“We didn’t do anything wrong. Sampson was a piece of shit who kept beating his wife and his kiddies. –I don’t approve of it myself, I’m not saying if it’s right or wrong, but I bet even someone here might have clipped their missus once or twice.

“But Sampson always went too far. He would have killed his wife and perhaps the two little kiddies, too. He never knew when to stop when he’d a few too many inside of him. and that was most of the time. Though God knows where he got the money. -He never worked even when there were jobs!”

Although none of them laughed, most of them smiled at my little joke. -It certainly seemed to take the heat out of the situation.

We agreed to say nothing to anyone else about what had happened and we arranged to hold a collection for his widow and the two little kiddies.

We didn’t collect much because, well, because we didn’t have much in our street. But I like to think it helped her, a little, coming up to Christmas as it was.

I’d always had a soft spot for Jenny Green, or Jenny Sampson as she became, even when we were kiddies, but the war had intervened and when I had returned in 1918, she had already married Sampson and had settled down to eight years of hell.

Eventually after a couple of years of discrete courting -or as discrete as courting ever can be in Brum!- I married Jenny and took on the two kiddies, as well, of course and they moved into my house, from the house that they rented. I was a bit of a rare 'un, you see. We'd owned our house for donkey's years.

I have heard it said that a man and his wife should keep no secrets from each other.

Normally, I would agree.

Normally. But the fact is, you see, I did keep one secret from her. A fairy big secret, really. The secret I am sharing with you, now.

The fact was, that I had murdered her first husband. Me, by myself.

I’ll have to tell you a bit of the background. In the pub that December night, the evening before his body had been found, Sampson had been boasting about how he had realised he could get out of even having to go through the motions of the pretence of thinking about buying presents for his two children.

“I can’t be bothered to buy the little buggers presents, but that damn fool woman of mine will insist on buying them something every bloody Christmas. -Why should I let that bitch waste my good drinking money on buying presents for them?”

Of course, it hadn’t been his drinking money. It had been money that Jenny had scrimped and scraped all year long to buy their two children a couple of cheap presents. Money she’d grafted for with damned hard collar at a variety of jobs from washing clothes to doing outwork.

“How did you do that, then?” Taffy had asked him. Although Sampson was too drunk to notice, the normally easygoing Taffy had a hard edge to his voice that I had never heard before. Taffy's bluey-green eyes seemed to flash.

“Easy! I just told the little buggers that I had found Father Christmas in the back yard and I’d murdered him and buried him under the Miskin!”

The way he said it, he had expected a laugh from his audience. He had misjudged it. The surly, heavy silence unsettled him.

At closing time we followed him from the pub. I can’t remember who threw the first punch, but we all joined in, giving him a good, solid Brummagem beating.

When he staggered off down the street, we didn’t follow, but ran the other way, laughing and whooping like a gang of little schoolboys.

When I reached my door, I cursed myself, realising that I had left my pipe and tobacco at the Cross and Bishop.

I turned and walked back to the pub. Fortunately the Landlord, Jack something-or-other, I can’t recall his other name, had not locked up yet, so he let me in to pick up my pipe and pouch of tobacco.

He gave me an old fashioned look, but said nothing.

As I left the pub which was at the top of our street, I heard Jack sliding the bolts of the outer door into place.

I had barely walked twenty yards when I came across Sampson, leaning against the wall of a small workshop in our street that had closed down many months before.

“You and your mates think you’re so bloody clever, don’t you? Well, let me tell you that I’m going to have the last laugh. When I feel steadier, I am going to go home and I’m going to wake that useless slut of a wife of mine and I’m going to make her watch me beat those damn brats of hers and then I am going to make them watch me as I beat her and do her in, in front of them!”

He sneered; “and you aren’t going to be there to stop me, are you?”

He so was busy telling me what he intended to do that he didn’t see me aim the kick at his crotch. It connected so well that all he did as he collapsed to the pavement, was give a bleat of air. I kicked him -as hard as I could- in the head a few times with my hobnailed boots, as he lay there.

And then -I walked home, leaving him lying very still, on the pavement, bleeding from his head.

I didn’t know if he was alive or dead, but I hoped he was dead. Frankly, I didn’t care much either way. As I say, three years up to your knees in mud, filthy water and the blood of your mates does something to a man.

Of course, the snow had really put me on the spot. I was one of the few men in our street with a job and certainly the first person out of a morning.

How would it have looked to the police if the only footprints in the snow had been mine and I had ignored the body and not reported it to the police? -And I couldn’t risk not going into work by pretending to be off work sick, what with the number of people who were already on the parish or the box as we called it back then.

The police are not stupid. If I hadn’t have reported finding the body, they’d have soon realised that I had something to do with the murder. -and there was only one way for me to walk to work, which took me past where the body was.

And I would have ended up doing a dance at Winson Green nick. -Perhaps along with me muckers who really did have nothing to do with the killing.

So, I had to find a policeman and report finding a body that I had already had a shrewd idea was there, waiting for me to discover it, and no one else. As I said, I was one of the lucky ones with a job. I would be the only person walking down our street at that time of the morning, so I knew what I had to do.

The incident was a seven day wonder in the local papers. Someone even suggested that it was the Peaky Blinders back again, up to their tricks of old.

But I knew who it was.

I always did my level best to ensure those two kiddies had the best Christmas I could afford to give them.

I never really managed to decide if this was me being kind to them and making up for Sampson’s evil -I truly loved them as if they had been my own- or if it was my way of sticking two fingers up at Sampson on every anniversary of his death, every Christmas week.

Glossary of genuine Birmingham terms and words

Brummie: A citizen of Birmingham, England.

Brummagem: Original name of Birmingham

Collar: Work. Hard Collar, hard work

Miskin: Dustbin

Peaky Blinder: Birmingham street gang. Alleged to wear peaked caps with razor blades in the peak, which they would hit other gangs with, trying to blind them.

Livery Street: A very long street in Birmingham. "A face as long as Livery Street" said of anyone who looked depressed.

Albert: Fob watch on a chain

Nick: Prison (Winson Green Prison is otherwise known as HM Prison, Birmingham, was built in 1849 and is still in full vigour)

This story has been posted at the request of Alexis, who wanted me to publish another of my works of fiction. So, Alexis, here it is!

Sorry, folks, but it IS going to be Christmas soon!

Next month, in fact. Sorry to rub it in.

I expect we Matt and Mrs Matt and the couple who are close friends of ours will visit the German Market and eat German foods and drink mulled wine and German beers. And there doubtless also be will be a trip to the nearest Wetherspoon pub for a meal and a pint of real ale for about £7.00 or so!

Then for Christmas we will probably have our traditional multi-faith Christmas dinner (atheist, Christian, pagan, Sikh) with fine wine, champagne, Indian tea (you have NOT drunk tea until you have drunk that, seriously!) lager (Carling, of course!) and Gran Stead's non-alcoholic ginger wine and lemonade and some real ale, too. Oh. And Coca Cola, both lite and full fat, too. There will also Sherry and Port for the mince pies and a good deal of other festive food will be eaten. Including Stilton, oh, YES! Stilton! And carbonated Vodka, from Sweden.

See? Non-Mormons do not have to drink alcohol. But Mormons do have to NOT drink alcohol.

Now, as a Mormon did I have a good Christmas? Now... that's an interesitng question. Sometimes, we did. But sometimes, I don't know, it somehow seemed that the LDS church brought misery and discord into our Christmases when there was no need for it.

I can recall Christmases before my parents became Mormons. My parents would drink Advocaat and some wine (Sherry, mainly, as wine was not that common in Birmingham in the 1950s/1960s!) my father would have a beer or two, but never three, and it was good.

So did I have good Christmases as a Mormon? Yes. But in all honesty, I have had better before and since.

To find out about lots of Christmas goodies you can visit
That's Christmas

A rude Carol (Sensitive people, don't watch!)

Hello there and goodbye there, rejected Mormon commenter!

For the first time in absolutely ages I had to reject a comment on this blog. Not because it was filled with the usual vacuous and vapid maudlin "pity poor, persecuted, me" tripe and twaddle of so many Mormons. Which it was. Nor that it was filled with enough strawmen to furnish 1,000 stage versions of The Wizard of Oz. Which it was.

Was it the fact that it was "uber-filled" with Mormon braggadocio. "You know that Mormons are some of the brightest and best moral charaters (sic) in society." Well, actually, I don't know that. I have met Mormons who are moral and Mormons who are immoral. Why? Because Mormons are people, the same as everyone else. And for moral Mormons, look at Joseph Smith and his childbrides, Brigham Young and the Mountain Meadows Murders, and Ted Bundy. Ted, it seems, had merely found the perfect cult for his own personality disorders.

And was it because TK presumed that I am a criminal, a drug addict and default on my alimony payments? Well, no. TK I am not a criminal, nor a drug addict and have no children on which to lavish alimony payments. How DARE you be so damnably judgemental? Oh! Yes, of course! It is because you have set yourself above other people as a 'Judge in Israel' able to cast your judgements on the heads of others.

And by the way TK, you are not worthy enough to lick my late father's boots clean, you odious little Mormon person, you. Repent, TK! Repent to a priest (a real priest, not a Mormon male child, by the way) if you are not man enough to go to your own Mormon Bishop. And remember! A priest tells nobody what you tell him, your Bishop tells EVERYONE in the ward...

Actually, TK, I rejected your post because you committed an act of libel in it. On someone else. And if you think I am going to allow my site to be a launching ground for the libellous ravings of a sad, delusion Cultista like you, think again.

Now on to other news. Gordon B. Hinckley is dead. And for some reason it took me several seconds to get his first name straight. For some reason I wanted to write Bill Hinckley, which I knew was wrong.

The coverage in the UK press was minimal. Why? Well, Mormons are blaming persecution. However, the real reason is that, out here in the real world, far away from the flaccid and flabby hand of the political influence of the Mormon Cult, nobody really knows or cares much about Mormonism.

They do not care that Mr Hinckley changed the unchangeable doctrines of The Mormon Church, because they probably never bothered to wonder what they were in the first place!

God lives on a planet or a star or something called Kolob. Well, no, maybe he doesn't! We don't know that! You, too, can be a God, one day! Well, I don't know that we teach that!

You no longer have to mime allowing yourself to be murdered by having your belly cut open and your throat slit for revealing the secrets of the Mormon Temple ceremony!

Hinckley's tenure at the heart of Mormonism lasted for decades. He was in charge years and YEARS before he became prophet. It is just that the fraudulent use of the Benson signature machine worked until, with Benson's long and troublesome death, he was able to formalise what had been the reality for some considerable time.

Then he was at the heart of The Mormon Machine. What to do? What to do?

Mainstream. Nah. Failed. I mean, come on, folks! You are living in Israel in about 5AD and you see an advert for the King Herrod Childcare Centre. Would you send YOUR kids there? No way!

And that is how many other Churches see Mormonism. "Hi, we are Mormons. We are Christians. In fact, we love Jesus so much, we named Joseph Smith's church after him!"

Think I am joking? At BYU last year they had a Joseph Smith Nativity scene. And here is the link to prove it:-http://www.nataliercollins.com/weblog/?p=191

Ex-Mormons deride Mormons for celebrating Smithmas instead of Christmas. And it is true that often the emphasis in Mormon church services at around Christmas time is all too often on the Smith, rather than the Carpenter...

Post Christmas musings from Matt

Hi. Hope you all had a good Christmas. I did. Champagne, wine, Sherry, Scotch, Port, real ale, lager, tea, coffee and some Vimto, too. (Vimto is a cordial that you add to water, though it is also available as a ready mixed drink, often carbonated. So you see the difference between me and a Mormon is that I can chose to drink alcohol or to not drink alcohol. Mormons do not have the luxury of free will.

Visited my mother on Christmas Eve, which was nice. She is getting better but oddly enough made little mention of her usual favourite topic, Mormonism, which made a nice change.

More post-Christmas expense. My poor Compaq laptop is getting a little tired and old so will be given a life of partial retirement. I have bought an HP Pavilion. It was the only computer close to my budget and has a much bigger screen so that should be good for my aging eyes!

Also had to buy a new modem, a Zyxel. I was going to use it in wireless mode but decided to use Ethernet, instead. AOL has cocked up and it is not possible at the moment to have AOL on my new computer at the moment.

I think that’s enough waffle from me. Happy New Year, everyone! See you in two weeks!

A Cat's Nativity. A story for the Christmas season

This story is for your enjoyment.

THE CAT’S CHRISTMAS

It was springtime. While the days were getting warmer, it was still very cold at nights when you could see the stars, bright and twinkly in the sky. When I was a kitten I used to try and catch them. But now I am an adult cat I know I would have to jump very high to catch them, perhaps even twenty times my length- far too high for a cat!

I am not usually allowed in the part of the house where my people lived. Though I am sometimes allowed in, but I can see no reason why sometimes I am allowed in, but other times not. It is hard to work out what human people do. With cat people, it is easy.

My special human friend lives there with her parents. Usually we play together; sometimes we both cuddle up and sleep in front of the oven in the back room.

She is usually kind. Sometimes she oversteps the mark, but a thump with a paw or -occasionally- a slap with one claw across the back of her hand is enough to re-establish the limits. Well, you have to keep kittens in their place (even human ones) or very soon you would not know where you are!

The lady -the mistress- is kind enough to me and gets me food and water. Still, as she says, it is my job to kill any mice and rats that dare to enter her territory.

The master is different. Although he swears about me, he is really secretly very fond of me, making a fuss of me when he thinks nobody is watching. Although he tells the mistress off for feeding me too much, he secretly feeds me much more tasty morsels than she EVER does!

The master always talks to me, as he paces up and down in the back room. But recently he began to become more and more angry. I don’t mind this, but I do have to be very wary of his legs and feet and try to keep out of his way, whilst doing my best to look attentive.

I’ts a disgrace, cat! He shouted. How can we be expected to house all the hundreds of people who will be coming back to Bethlehem, just so they can be counted? The people know they exist, we know they exist, so what is the problem?

Don’t tell me! –It’s because a stupid Roman thought up the idea. Mind you, cat, that’s all the Romans know about anything. Building straight roads through things, not round them like good, God fearing people, worshipping false idols and counting people for tax reasons, as if they were wine sponges to be squeezed!

I sat watching him. I know my part.

He suddenly bent down and ruffled my fur and gave me a piece of meat. I purred as I eat it, just to show how much I appreciate his acts of kindness. In a way, I suppose I like him best of all.

I was normally indifferent to the strangers who come. -I remember when I was a kitten I did not like them, but quickly I realised that humans kick you or tread on your tail usually because as their heads and eyes are in such a funny position they cant see anything in front of them properly! I Laughed when I worked this out. It seems such a sad deformity for them to be burdened with.

Also, I realised that there was a link between the people staying and how much food would be bought. The strangers came with money that the mistress used to go to the market and exchange for food in the market.

I used to follow her there every morning when I was a kitten, but I soon found that not everyone liked cats, so I decided to stay at home and wait for her, instead.

I began not to like the place so much as more and more people began to come and stay. There was so many of them that they even slept in the back room where mistress prepared the food -and that had NEVER happened before!

To stay out of harms way I began spending more and more of my time in the stable across the back of the yard with the sheep, goats and cattle. -Mind you, the master’s cousin and uncle had just taken the sheep up into the hills as they do every spring.

I was in the house late one evening -just waiting for an opportunity to retreat to the stable in a huff!- when someone -it was a man from some place in the North -wherever THAT is!- said; This is strange -its light outside, yet there’s no moon tonight. Must be an omen of some kind. Should we get a Rabbi, do you think?

If he can fit in here, said a young man with a gruff voice. Anyway, what would you do, hide beneath his beard?! Everyone laughed, but I could tell they were all a bit nervous, which made me worried, too.

As the laughing died down, there was a thumping on the door.

No! We can’t fit anyone else in. -Cant they read the notice you put on the door?

The master said; Maybe not. Not all can read. I’ll deal with it. Shouldn’t take me too long. I followed him to the door. -After all, I am a cat and it is in our nature to need to know what is happening. Besides, I like to greet and inspect our guests!

As he stood before the door I could see that he was working himself up to turn the latecomer away. As he opened the door the words seemed to die in his throat as we were met by a pitiful sight.

On the doorstep was a man who looked so tired that he lent on his staff, nearly ready to drop. He looked like a well-to-do craftsman, but he was covered with the dirt of many days journey.

But he was not really what caught our attention, for he was not alone. With him, a little way back in the road, was a young girl on a very tired donkey. As I looked at her I could see that she looked worn out and was heavily in kitten.

Please, the man sounded tired beyond endurance. I know you are full, but my wife is pregnant and we have come from Nazareth for the Roman Census.

The master looked upset, for all his gruff ways he is a very kindly man.

I’m sorry, but there really is no room at the inn. -Why not try Zac’s place further down on the market street?

We did. He sent us to you.

The girl gave a little gasp. Joseph. -Please. Just take me to the edge of town. I think I must be near to my time. You’ll have to build me a little tent with your cloak.

You will do no such thing! Shouted the master. I am sure we can find a corner or... Suddenly he stopped. What am I thinking of? We have as much room as you could want and more, besides! -Come with me!

He went outside and if I hadn’t nimbly jumped to one side, he would have kicked me as he hurried round to the side gate which led to the yard.

He pointed to the stable; When I first started the inn, that was it. Guests and us upstairs, animals downstairs. We built the new place six years ago.

It’s not too bad. -The floors upstairs are too dangerous; otherwise you could have gone upstairs and used that. But there’s plenty of room downstairs, so long as you don’t mind sharing with the animals. -Still, the lads collected the sheep a week or two back to take them up to the hills, so there’s more room than there would have been.

Get your belongings sorted out and whilst you do that, Ill go and get the wife to bring you some blankets and some food. -I thought she was mad when she and some lad she’d hired to help her turned up with so much food from the market this morning. Told me she had a feeling that she should. Maybe she was right.

The man and the woman looked at each other and a smile passed between them as if they were sharing some secret joke.

As he strode across the yard the master said; normally can’t see a thing at night when the moon isn’t out, without a lantern, but there’s a big star or something up there, right above us. I suppose King Herrod’s wise men will be trying to work out what it means. -Much good it will do them. He’s not a patch on his Father, the old king, that one!

He left the couple in the stables and as he returned to the house I waited and watched the couple as they settled in.

There was something strange about the woman. -Strange but sort of beautiful. It was odd, but she was almost as beautiful as a cat.

Her husband and my mistress helped put her down on a bed of straw my master had hurriedly put together. He apologised for how rough it was, but she said it felt as if she was in a palace. She smiled at him and he went bright red, and coughed.

Not long after that, she gave birth. Now, I have seen my mistress drop a litter of human kittens –well, I say litter, but she only ever has one at a time!- and normally there is a lot of shouting and yelling, but the woman was very quiet and almost peaceful.

But when her kitten was born, he looked at me! I know he did. And he smiled at me. I stared at him and I felt all weak on my legs, like I had never felt before. But it was a good, warm feeling. Like when your mother cuddles you and licks you all over. That kind of feeling. They wrapped him up –I expect it was because all human children lose their fur, somehow, and laid him in a little box thing, called a manger. He seemed a lot more quiet than most human kittens, I thought. All the while, through the night there was a funny bright light in the sky. It did not make much difference to me (I can get by in the day or night with my sharp eyes) but it upset and intrigued the humans.

The man sorted out the Roman Census for him and his wife. Though there was a bit of confusion as the child had been born here in Bethlehem and not where they came from. But that was sorted out.

Soon, everyone had gone back to their homes, everyone except our regular guests, a travelling salesman and our family in the stables. Master and mistress begged them to come in –their names were Joseph and Mary, but they said they were very comfortable where they were and did not wish to move again so soon! Mistress was worried she would look like a bad landlady, but I told her it would be alright, as I would look after them and keep an eye on them. The lads with the sheep came down to see the baby, they even bought a lamb with them. They said it could not have lived outside, but it wasn’t that cold out there. I think the boy with them just wanted to introduce his favourite lamb to the special human kitten!

It was one of these occasions when I was watching over them that I saw three very important looking humans on camels. In case you have never seen a camel they are like horses, but not quite. They were dressed in fine robes and they gave presents to the baby, but the mother and the father seemed anxious.

Then, as quickly as they came, the family went away again. Some important person came looking for them, a messenger from the King, but my humans were only able to say they had gone to Egypt and had not said if they would be back.

***

I am an old cat now, my whiskers are drooping a bit, my fur is going grey, my bones ache sometimes and me and master do not do very much now, but sit by the fire and we both purr, but I still miss that human kitten, the one they called Jesus.

COV 16th December 2007

Well, here we are. The last COV before Christmas! I nearly have all of my Christmas shopping done, but will probably be out on Christmas Eve, doing some last minute gift buying!

But on with the COV for 16th of December!

Sideon writes:
Here's the link for my COV contribution, which is about Romney. I love the guy like I love George Bush and Karl Rove and Dick Cheney, which is the kind of love that can best be measured with an electronic microscope. Other measurements would require a ruler, but that's another topic for another day.

http://sideon.wordpress.com/2007/12/06/sl-trib-comments-about-romney

“SL Trib comments about Romney
It’s been curious seeing the headlines change through the day about Romney and his “historic” speech. Initially, the headlines highlighted this gem: “Freedom requires religion just as religion requires freedom.” (Hey Jesus, can you come back down here and bitch-slap your followers starting with Romney, please pretty please?)”


And now to From the Ashes a Christmas-themed posting
http://emergingfromtheashes.blogspot.com/2006/12/winter-solstice-and-ritual.html

“I grew up thinking that pagans were the epitome of evil. Worse than Catholics or Muslims, because at least they believed in God. My exposure to pagans and paganism was extremely limited, of course. My only exposure, I think, was from the movie Dragnet with Dan Aykroyd. Those pagans partied, did drugs, stole police cars, dressed in animal skins, and sacrificed virgins. And wasn't there something about playboy bunnies? They were bad. Okay, so I still think sacrificing virgins or anyone else is definitely not a good idea, but my thoughts on paganism have changed.”

MATT INTERJECTS: This was the Mormon upbringing that I had, too. I tried to square it with the fact that my Grandmother was a descendent of the Wise Women of Wales (she could cure warts, for example) and I failed. Grandmother would be pleased with the fact that I left Mormonism)


And a Christmas time post From The Ashes Post

http://emergingfromtheashes.blogspot.com/2007/12/were-happier-than-everyone-else.html

“We got roped into attending a Baptist church's Christmas choir performance today, as my father-in-law was playing in the orchestra. Not our cup of tea, but we wanted to go at least to support him. You know, the "the relationship is most important" mantra I'm trying to use to negotiate this Mormon-EvilAtheist divide in the family.”

And next we go over to the blog of Sister Mary Lisa
http://sistermarylisa.blogspot.com/2007/12/if-i-were-free-from-all-fear-i-would.html

“If I were free of all fear, I would...
I have an idea that I'd like to try with the help of my friends who read my blog. Once a very good friend gave me the assignment to write about this topic:

I posted it elsewhere, and it was raw and scary and amazing to write about my fears and to interact with others about them from the relative anonymity of the internet. So I hereby propose that it'd be cool for anyone who wishes to anonymously send me their thoughts on this topic, and I'll post them here for anyone to read and comment on. Trust me, this is way cool to do. It puts you in touch with yourself in a way that is not common, and I was so glad I did it.”

Now to South Bay Soliloquies

http://south-bay-soliloquies.blogspot.com/2007/12/bricked-ipod-update.html

This is really scary and NOT for the fainthearted! It’s about IPod surgery!!

“Bricked iPod, Update
I finally got around to cracking my iPod case open. It took a penknife and a guitar pick. If you try this at home, know that there's a little trick to it and you really have to dig at the case to get it to pop open the first time. There are videos floating around on youTube if you want a little guidance.”


And here’s one from CV Rick aka Ninja Writer but NOT Clutch, as that’s not what he is known by in the Blogosphere. Sorry ‘bout that. I’ll keep that in mind for the future!

Hey,

Here's my submission.
http://www.cvrick.com/cv_rick/2007/12/growing-up-morm.html

It's about the Christmas Tree, so that's appropriate.


And here is the submission of Matt

http://notamormon.blogspot.com/2007/12/i-think-my-brother-has-problem-with-me.html

“I think my brother has a problem with me. But I am not entirely certain why. In fact, in truth, I haven’t got the foggiest notion what crap he is pulling through him! Seriously I would like some input on this one as it is a puzzle to me. Can you please comment on this problem I have? I think there might be multiple causes.”

Merry Christmas and a happy New Year, folks!

The next COV will be Sunday 30th of December.

I think my brother has a problem with me...

I think my brother has a problem with me... But I am not entirely certain why. In fact, in truth, I haven’t got the foggiest notion what crap he is pulling through him! Seriously I would like some input on this one as it is a puzzle to me. Can you please comment on this problem I have? I think there might be multiple causes.

Firstly, I think he might resent the fact that I am out of TSCC. I mean, let’s face it? What will I do this Christmas?

After a leisurely and late breakfast with a mug of Irish Coffee, or freshly brewed coffee, we will enjoy mince pies and a glass or two of vintage Port or Sherry.

We might enjoy a glass or two of 10 year old single malt and settle down to watch some Carol service on the TV. We might even take in a Carol service at the local church. (We probably won’t, but we could, if we wanted to.)

With our Christmas dinner we will enjoy some suitable white and red wines –perhaps a Rose?- to go with the various courses. And afterwards we will open up a bottle of Champagne.

We will then sample various beers and with our supper (turkey and stuffing sandwiches) we will drink a little more wine and go for a walk in the cold air here on the English/Welsh border. When we get back we will enjoy glasses of Smoking Bishop and more mince pies!

(Here’s the recipe for Smoking Bishop http://www.msgr.ca/msgr-2/dickens_smoking_bishop.htm which is basically a mulled wine punch.)

And what will my brother and his family enjoy?

Breakfast with Barleycup. (A vile concoction that many people have a life-threatening allergy to).

Mince pies with Welch's Grape Juice. (I tried Welch’s grape juice at a food show recently. It has to be one of the most evil-tasting drinks I have ever tried. Any Mormon who expresses “love” for it is a liar, in my opinion.

And then it’s a case of “Anyone for another drink of Hemlock... err... sorry!... Barleycup?

With Christmas dinner there’s either Welch’s Grape Juice or Schloer grape juice which is just a little more palatable than Welch’s. But not by much!

My bother did not want me to know he was emigrating to Canada with his family. And seemed really put out when our mother mentioned this to me in passing.

Even more galling only months later it seems his darling wife who was pushing to emigrate to Canada now decides she doesn’t like Canada, so is pushing for them to move back!

He came back home for a week –he stayed at our mother’s flat- but not once made any effort to contact me. I phoned my mother on Monday to check if he was alright, he came later that day and he left late Friday afternoon, just before I phoned my mother again.

He clearly wants nowt to do with me. But why?

The summer before last my aunt had her 90^th birthday. I was holding a plate and a can of lager when my nephew asked me to write down my email address. I asked him to hold my plate and drink whilst I wrote it down. At this my brother came running over, knocking an elderly relative out of the way in his haste. He realised what had happened –that I had not been offering my nephew (who is 16) a drink and looked very, very foolish indeed. (I’ll add here that under UK law it is perfectly permissible for children to drink alcohol within the home, and also for children 14 aqnd up to consume alcohol in licensed premises with a meal.)

What my brother did not know was that I had been giving my nephew the kind of talk HE should give him! My brother is under the impression that his son does not drink alcohol because “the church teaches that we should not drink alcohol.” WRONG! Sadly, my nephew drinks like a fish. Not wisely or sensibly, mind you, but spirits and he and his friends guzzle the bottles down until they are empty.

I pointed out that this was not sensible as it would make him feel very ill. He admitted that it did, I advised him to either keep of spirits altogether, or to mix water or soft drinks with them. If you want to drink alcohol, I told him, stick to small amounts of lager, or beer. I told him about the advantages of drinking real ale over other alcoholic drinks (highly carbonated lagers will make you drunk much quicker.)

Actually, my brother –who is a couple of years younger than me- has resented me for quite a while before that incident, so I don’t think it could be that.

At another family party my mother had found me in the kitchen chatting about various types of real ale that we had tried. She looked at me, looked over at my brother (who had his “smug git” expression on) and she surprised me by saying: “Talking about beer with the lads, are you?” To which I proudly acknowledged .

She looked at me, looked at my cousin, patted me on the arm and said: “Well, thank God ONE of my boys has turned out normal!”

As she walked off, a smile on her lips, my cousin –who is a nevermo- said: “What the bloody hell was all that about?” To which I replied: “I haven’t a clue!”

My brother also has a problem with my wife. She is a Catholic and that has caused some friction.

So… any ideas? Please post your comments!