In anticipation of mince pies and mulled wine

Wednesday 10th November 2010


Destination London King's Cross
I felt I should wait for something to trigger my first blog, and I am certain the moment has come, for I am currently racing through the North Eastern countryside aboard an East Coast express bound for London Kings Cross, my eyes feasting on the countryside basking in all its glory in the mid November rays. I have, for once, acquired a seat which is not only next to the window but has a table and even more unusual is that of the 3 people surrounding me in this cosy quadrilateral, not one is unpleasant, aesthetically displeasing, cumbersome or indeed vexing in any way. The pinnacle is reached upon sinking my teeth into the festive flavours of the Christmas corker sandwich M&S special – “with all the trimmings” – something I have been building up to for several hours now. Sir Michael Rose has not disappointed. It is everything I could have hoped for – succulent turkey which my ‘unzippable’ sandwich box hastens to assure me is ‘farm assured’, the zesty tang of the cranberry sauce, the herby aroma of the stuffing and the crispy rashers of bacon.. Thoughts immediately fastforward to that first mince pie, the first glass of mulled wine, the first slab of Christmas cake…

I encounter a certain amount of difficulty when I try to think of something which gives me quite as much pleasure as a day such as today – the sky a piercing blue, the colours of the ivy which defiantly grips the brickwork outside daring to challenge even those of Joseph’s Dreamcoat, and the cathedral boasting an aureate complexion, instantly dismissing any doubts over its being dubbed ‘Britain’s favourite building’, as overawed tourists try and fail without exception to capture such regal splendour on a modest 2"x3" screen. Berries, those virulent vesicles of polished vermilion, nestle not inconspicuously amongst the lattice of ivy leaves, and are reflected in a rubix cube of colours upon the Wear’s glassy waters.

Mixed feelings about returning to the big city. Bustle, people frantically rushing around, constant noise, more people, high stress, honking taxis, some more people, crammed tubes, outrageous prices, bankruptcy, the ‘gap yah social circle’… compared with the civilised bubble of DH1: everything you could ever wish for within a stone’s throw, quaint cobbled streets, accordions lightening everyone’s step with a jolly jig, the castle on the hill with my name on it, countless coffee sessions and never walking more than 50m without seeing a familiar face.

On the flip side – what awaits me in SW19 more than compensates for what is really just a few momentary inconveniences in getting from A to B in the capital. My reward - my brother, fresh from his elongated spell in a godforsaken region of Western Canada, a flute or three of bubbly to celebrate Mum’s birthday, a steaming bath, and the unbeatable flavour of freshly caught Cromer crab linguine à la Hugh F-W. Life’s tough. The morning will see a tour of London’s finest department stores – a surreal experience to be sure, as amongst the festive array of luxury goods will be my classmates of 7 years all ‘branching out’ behind the tills at Fortnums and Selfridges.

For the time being, however, I focus my thoughts solely on the that mug of Whittards' 'Christmas tea', brewed with my newly acquired infuser and dispensed via the festive holly teapot of similar origin, with a goodly wedge of homemade fruit cake - how cold dark afternoons should be spent.