Gods and Minsters

The BBC2 Young Chorister of the year for 2012, resplendent in her deep red robe, was just at the end of the first line of the opening verse of Away in a Manger when the old lady, three rows in from the front, exploded.

It was a fearsome and startling experience.

I had noticed her earlier on in the proceedings. My judgement of her was, I stress, purely based on my view of the back of her head because that was all I could see of her diminuitive form from my own seat, a further four rows back.

She wore a pink, fur trimmed hat, pulled down over her ears as though in a sole silent protest against the organisers of the event for having kept her standing outside the church, standing on sunken gravestones of the great, good and wealthy  for the preceeding forty minutes, in sub zero temperatures and for what reason?

Her slender form was heavily cloaked in the matching fur trimmed coat and the overall impression of, well, just pink was very striking. I could imagine other aspects of her character on the basis of my stock judgement.

Perhaps a schoolteacher in her working life, always busy and active and this discipline had helped her to maintain her slim figure into the long, drawn out years of retirement on a good final salary based pension. Married to a kind and attentive man who left for the office to do something everyday and spent the weekend in a shed and pottering about the garden. He unfortunately faded away quietly a week into his own retirement. They had not really had any major plans. One son, an accountant, living in London and with a partner and two children by a previous marriage. Her attendance at the service was down to her next door neighbours who were regular worshippers and had invited her partly out of pity and to engender in her the Christmas Spirit.

I believe that her subsequent sneeze of legendary orgasmic proportions (as I am led to understand is the physiological similarity of such: Source: Cosmopolitan; Christmas Edition 2011) was involuntary but it had a set number of consequences.

1) The Chorister, no more than 14 years of age from Blackburn, burst out laughing giving a glimpse of the real person behind the serious and angelic expression.

2) The entire front three rows with the exception of the lady in pink were seen to panic from a seated position as though a fire cracker had been thrown.

3) The musical director, arms out conducting the string quartet in the popular American traditional carol , spun around in frustration at this unscheduled participation in his arrangement.

4) The rest of the 600 strong congegation looked in all other directions for the source of the sound thanks to the remarkable acoustic characteristics of a cathedral sized parish church of Medieval Gothic origin and the resonance peculiarly uinque to a combination of oolitic and magnesian limestone.

5) The BBC Producer of Sunday Half Hour, of quite a plump, monkish build was seen to run into the Nave from the large broadcast vehicle parked outside the north door and after catching his breath call out "Cut, from the top again please". He pulled at his large headset earphones in an exaggerated gesture to indicate that he, himself, had borne the brunt of the burst of the sound.

Things soon settled down after this unscheduled interruption. The Chorister girl retained her impeccable composure in a manner that belied her young years. She was definitely going places. Those who had previously felt a similar tendency hastily sought out their handkerchiefs and tissues from the folds of their winter coats and jackets or just sniffed in a suppressed manner, regardless of the obvious implications for nightime catarrh problems that they were storing up for later.

I was actually quite surprised that there were no significant outbursts of coughing or wheezing in the quieter moments of the service given the demographic of the congregation.

It would appear that amongst the more affluent eligible population, here assembled, there had been a very good uptake of the offer of the flu jab. The rest just relied on their own mortal fear of God.

(Service to be Broadcast on 23.12.12.  BBC Radio 2. 8pm to 9pm)

The Greatest Gift

It's a wonderful film and yet, as with most works of genius it was not recognised in its own time. Perhaps its sentiment in 1946 was too nice for a world emerging from war and austerity. It has at it's root laudable themes of brooding unhappiness , selfless service to the community, heartless business and contemplation of suicide and not that many pitch battles, bombing missions, beach assaults and no notable explosions which were otherwise popular movie features of the period.  It represented a return of humanity and values that had been sacrificed or as the lead character, George Bailey, played by James Stewart remarks 'all is fair in love and war'. I am of course referring to the Frank Capra movie of It's a Wonderful Life.

It's a regular event in our family to watch the DVD in the run-up to Christmas. It does rank and climbs the poll every year as the best Christmas film of all time although my son still contends that Die Hard (1) would be hard to be pushed off top spot. Recently , a re-digitised and colour version was released but to really appreciate the heart warming emotions it has to be seen in original black and white. The movie does impact in all its glory on a small domestic TV screen, especially when cocooned in a duvet on the sofa and surrounded by loved ones. In the privacy of my own home I will be a bit misty eyed by about 30 minutes into the running time and completely useless and blubbering for the duration. I issue a spoiler alert at this stage but you must, if not familiar with the film, just watch it, wrapped up, with family or close friends and keep some tissues up your sleeves.

It's a rare privilege therefore, some 66 years after the release of the film, to get an opportunity to see it on the big screen in a cinema. It is something altogether different to contemplate being seen crying in a public auditorium. In my favour the screening was in a town some distance away from my home and so there was a low to acceptable risk of bumping into a friend or acquaintance. I had mentioned to colleagues and just passers by in the street, in the preceeding weeks, that this was on the cards but was very careful not to divulge the location, day, date and time. I was astounded by the number of blank expressions from those with no knowledge of the film although the enthusiastic reminiscences from the majority did outweigh those poor unfortunate and unfulfilled souls.

It's a small cinema, one of the very few still surviving in a market place setting in a commuter town. The nearest multiplex would be around 20 miles away in the nearest cities which will have helped it to persist. I would wiillingly have paid more than the £4 admission charge which did include a glass of sherry and a micro-mince pie. Forget your deep and plushly upholstered back massaging, centrally heated and wired for sound luxury seating and just get comfortable if you can in a blue cloth wrapped bucket. Not much chance of being seduced into a sleep for the duration which is all good. I have often paid £12.50 to Odeon , Vue and Cineworld Cinemas ostensibly for a film but actually for a fitfull drift in and out of consciousness in that luxuriant heavy eyed feeling. Most blockbuster films are a mystery to me in terms of the main plot as I am only awake for the very beginning and the final chaotic few frames, usually involving silhouetted figures and a sunset.

It's an exciting moment when the lights dim and the big screen lights up into action. The quality of the film was fantastic although I may have been secretly disappointed that there were no bromide-brown blobs, dancing string-like blemishes or curses from the projection room over scorched and melting celluloid. I was immediately transported back in time as though at a small town Premiere of It's a Wonderful Life. The lack of legroom to a baby boomer like myself would not have constituted a problem to a post war audience in the UK, what with emaciation from many years of rationing, staple food deficiences and premature curvature of the legs from rickets.

It's a revelation to see the drama unfold on the big screen. Although I have seen the movie at least annually for the last decade or so the super sized images added a completely fresh dimension and it was as though I was seeing it for the first time. In close-up and at 4m full on,  the facial expressions of James Stewart are even more magnificent and as for the lead actress, Donna Reed, well she's got a very good complexion and skin tone which is not always apparent on my Sony TV at home. There was a warning on the advertising poster of mild violence for the more sensitive in the audience. In the context of the film and it's era it was acceptable, or so it was portrayed, to slap around shop staff, throw stones at houses, verbally abuse primary school teachers, drink drive and make mad and violent love- you know the sort, fully clothed, no actual physical contact and with both feet on the ground to get past the Film Censors.

It's a therapeutic sound to hear a large group of people laugh and weep at alternate moments but generally in unison. I had just about got acclimatised to the seat when the film finished. Where had the time gone? As the audience reluctantly got up to go and in rather harsh lighting it was normal service resumed in human interaction or the lack of it. We all, me included, kept our heads down for fear of showing a weakness in our tear streamed faces. The waste bin at the exit was nearly full of damp Kleenex when I reached it and coaxed out the soggy contents of my left sleeve. A few small family groups lingered and reassured each other in quite a public display of fondness which was both nice and a bit cringy in equal proportions.

It's a funny thing but on the pavement outside, in the minus one degree of a mid December night in a Yorkshire town it felt a bit like the Bedford Falls of the film. It was not so long ago that there had been, like in the film, a run on the bank. There will be many that we know personally who feel trapped in their current lives when in their carefree youth they had magnificent plans to travel and undertake adventures. We all will have felt a degree of despair, anxiety and depression at some time. It is ultimately important , however to remind ourselves that we all contribute in some way to the lives of those around us whether through supporting our families and friends or just through a kind word or deed to a complete stranger.

It's in our power to make it a really wonderful life. Get busy.

Wordfight at the OK Quarrel

The abbreviation of O.K is so much more than an abbreviation.

It is an accepted word in its own right, a universally recognised and acknowledged term.

In tight, nervy, potentially explosive and confrontational situations there will have been many occasions when the use and comprehension of OK by either side in a conflict will have served as a lifeline and saving grace, or alternatively, the signal to pull the trigger.

OK would always be considered as the first scribbled entry in the margins of a global language dictionary and yet its origins are still very much a matter of speculation. This is very surprising given its rapid ascendancy into the English language and its persistence in that list of words to truly attain universal status.

The league table of global words is very fluid and on a year to year basis there will be new entrants, one hit wonders and a few dropping out of populist use altogether. The main drivers for new words are commercialism and the influence of the internet and these sources are more influential than ever. The process, with the emergence of a fresh crop of economically powerful nations, will be for words to originate from products, services and search engines and become quickly established in everyday language. It will  be possible to track back precisely to the hour, minute and second to the birth of a new word or term in direct contrast to the slow assimilation from word of mouth or through literature that has been the case in the development of language in the past.

Authoratative research and publications on the derivation of OK is divided.

The smart money is on its introduction as a bit of an in joke by intellectual types in Boston, USA in or around the late 1830's. A sense of superiority and self worth, nowadays just called being a smart-arse, led to the development of abbreviations to mimic the speaking voices of their supposed inferiors in society. O.W signified "oll wright", K.Y for "know yuse" and the sole survivor of this jolly jape, O.K for "oll wright".

This very much schoolboy brand humour graduated to a first appearance in print in a Boston daily newspaper in March 1839, or so the legend holds. As a sole source of information and influence, at that time, an apparent endorsement by a newspaper for a word or phrase would be the equivalent of something, today, 'trending' on Twitter.

In the following year the campaign for re-election by the then eighth President of the United States , Martin Van Buren, displayed OK prominently as part of its rallying cry. It is not clear if this was an intentional use and wordplay of "All Correct" in its proper grammatical form or just a coincidence in that his nickname was 'Old Kinderhook'. The hysteria of a crowded assembly room or other mass gatherings and the chanting of OK on a national basis appear to have consolidated its use and ensured longevity in this Americanism of the English language. There is, on a Presidential theme, the attachment of OK as a bastardised form of the semi-literate conversational traits of the seventh incumbent, Andrew Jackson who was in power in the decade prior to Van Buren and for whom Old Kinderhook was Vice President . Hailing from Tennessee it is conceivable that a drawling dialect would produce more of a sound of "Oll Korrect" than a crystal clear pronunciation.

There are of course many other theories as to the derivation of OK.

Surely ancient languages will have had some form of words to express the sentiment of OK even if it did not have any mileage beyond the range of a local dialect or a national border. In Greek, and forgive me if I spell this incorrectly, the phrase "Ola Kala" means everything is fine. The export of all things Greek including a reasonable proportion of its population to America and Australia as displaced migrants will have provided a new outlet and use for this form of reassurance. There is further speculation that OK evolved from the Scottish "Och Aye" which I personally feel is quite convincing again from the dissipation of Scots into every part of the world and therefore an ability to influence colloquialisms on a global basis.

Indeed, just about every dialect has a not dissimilar form of words or phrase from the Finnish "oikea" to Haitian "aux cayes" .

The  language of the native american Choctaw Indians whose traditional homelands were in the Mississippi and Alabama regions had the word 'Okeh'. African slaves, captured and incarcerated from all points of their home continent, had to develop a common form of communication and amongst the thriving vocabulary was the word " 'kays".

As well as individuals and foreign languages being cited as a possible source of OK there has also been speculation that a popular product in wide circulation may also have been the original catalyst to its use. This theory has included the practice of a manufacturer stamping initials  on a brand of baked biscuits with such producer being one Otto Kimmel.

Perhaps the most famous OK belongs to the Corral location of the cult-status gunfight of 1881. Iconic the abbreviation may make it but the initials are thought to refer to just an ordinary name, Old Kindersley.

We may never come to know the true derivation of the term but is it a matter of pride or embarassment that OK persists as arguably the greatest single gift to international language of all time? I am not aware that anyone has stepped forward to claim that honour.

The Christmas Angel

Maureen, my mother in law was thinking about making her preparations for Christmas.

On the way over for a visit yesterday evening I  remarked to my wife that if Maureen was not trimmed up yet then we should offer to lend a hand. After all, she is 83 but this does not stop her from climbing on chairs or balancing precariously on the settee or dining table to get that perfect angle for the festooning of the rooms in her house with paper chains, glossy metallic decorations and ornate paper cut outs of snowflakes.

Maureen has been a bit under the weather in recent months, not really surprising because she refuses point blank to scale down her operations and take it easy. We do miss her monday Concierge service at our house but there is a time to make the right decision for Maureen. If her health is at stake I can cope with not having the front pathway washed down on a weekly basis, the drain gully's cleaned out and the external woodwork washed down. At half her age these are the sort of things I should be doing, well at least every fortnight then.

On pulling up outside Maureens house there was no sign of the traditional lights and hangings. The hallway was dark and with only the back room light illuminating the way past the shopping trolley (wheels still warm to the touch). My left shoulder brushed against the curtain divider pulled right across the flat arch opening into the front room. On many previous occasions I have hesitated to push open the door to the back room , even after having knocked loud and sure. Maureen could as readily be cavorting about dressed in a belly dancer outfit or doing a Lili Marlene look-e-likey (all for Charitable endeavours of course) as sat on her haunches eating winkles and a dressed crab , or peeling potatoes and making up the pastry mix for one of her famously delicious shortcrust topped apple pies.

She was perched on the edge of the sofa, not unusual in itself, but only because it was the only clear space in the whole room. My expressions of son-in law concerns to my wife that Maureen might be thinking about having a quieter Christmas this year were completely dismissed by the resemblance of the back room to the staging post for Santa's North Pole Operational Centre.

The black suitcase, bursting with the best seasonal figures of angels, stars and ornaments was open and it contents ordered for arrangement. The dining table was a sea of bright red envelopes and greetings cards being prepared to burst the postbox down the street. Mysterious black bin bags lay all around, unmarked but to Maureens own organisational system and becoming increasingly full of gifts for the family from each trip out to the shops.

There were a few cards opened and displayed on the mantelpiece. We had often thought of running a sweepstake on how many cards she would receive every year because this regularly exceeded a hundred and more . This is a heartwarming sign of  the fondness and love that is felt for Maureen by not just her large family circle but neighbours, friends and acquaintances down the street and through the local community.

I was wrong to be doubtful .As ever Maureen is well prepared to celebrate Christmas. My wife was a bit teary and emotional at this stage, overcome with the happy memories of her childhood at the sight of the suitcase full of the familiar things which hold so much of the magic of the run up to Christmas.

She recalled , when young, finding wrapped presents in the house in the spring of the following year which her mum had hidden and forgotten about. These gifts, themselves, may indeed have been purchased in the January Sales of the preceeding year. How is that for being organised?

Maureen has some great stories of past events from this time of year.

My father in law, George went for a drink one Christmas Eve with strict instructions to be back by eleven pm to help with the turkey and trimmings. There was no sight nor sound of him until the early hours when one of his friends popped a head, hesitantly, around the door jamb to guage the atmosphere with Maureen. Thinking the grinning form in the dark of the night was her husband she wound up a powerful haymaker, wholly out of character but understandable with there being so much to do. A female voice pleaded with her not to lamp the man, her husband. He was just the foil and front for a very apologetic but contentedly tipsy George.

It was frosty in the spouse department for the rest of Christmas Day and George was not allowed to forget about his neglect of duty. He was a bit quiet and kept well out of Maureens way, holding his sore head in his hands in the living room. It was a very rare thing indeed for George to sidestep his responsibilities which was a mainstay of his defence. He would be forgiven eventually, or at least after the Queens Speech.

The celebrations of the Day were interrupted by a knock, half hearted, at the front door. This was unusual because no-one in the street ever locked their houses and neighbours just came in and went as and when required.

The caller was the man who had narrowly avoided the wrath of Maureen just a few hours before. He was on a mercy mission.

On the route back from the pub the large-ish group of menfolk had continued the session in each others homes,a bit of a nightcap. In one kitchen they had thoughtlessly helped themselves to the whole of a Christmas dinner. It must have seemed a good idea at the time. There was now an appeal on behalf of the empty table of that family. It appears that ,with the cooked ham donated by Maureen and similar fare from the other miscreants of the night before Christmas, the day was salvaged and enjoyed by all.

My own eyes were watering at the recounting of this particular story and it was a joy to see Maureen herself rock with laughter at the memories invoked by it. I was reassured that Christmas and the celebration of it was, as always, very much present in that house.

"Had we seen the tree?", we were asked. Maureen led us through, with a light skip, to the front room. Pulling back of the curtain revealed a winter wonderland. A three foot high, elaborate and detailed Santa stood watch on the hearth. He was in the true St Nicholas style and not a bit scary or intimidating for his size. Really not scary.

Our attention was taken however by the sight of the tree.

It was a moving, almost liquid mass of lights that pulsed and strobed in a million random sequences through its fibre optic network of dense branches and boughs. It was mesmerising to watch, a perfect pyramidal form. Of course I had to touch it, didn't I, to set my mind at rest that it was not actually a freakish, irradiated natural pine or a hologram.

Maureen, at our thrilled reaction to her very own grotto, just giggled. I could not be entirely sure but I got the impression that she had lifted very slightly off the living room floor as though in an excited flutter of Angel Wings.

Do it Large at Christmas

We are approaching what others refer to as "a grown-ups Christmas".

Our three children are all now young adults and inevitably their participation in the Festive season this year, unlike previously, is not wholly in their control.

Eldest daughter has a fast approaching deadline on her Final Year Dissertation. Younger daughter ,recently graduated from University  is in full time employment. You can imagine the dismay and shock she has expressed over having to work right up to and including Christmas Eve and then straight back behind her desk for the straggling final days of the year.Who does that ?  Youngest son, nearly 18 is conflicted between how to treat Christmas given that he is still wrapped up in the excruciatingly prolonged  excitement but yet reserved and self restrained on the basis of his age and perceptions of how a young man should conduct himself.

The loss of ,what has become a tradition in our small family sub-unit, a pyjama day on the 27th December is a distinct possibility.

We, as parents, are however determined to perpetuate the true meaning of Christmas and we will ensure, to the best of our abilities, that this year will be no different to the nearly 23 previous celebrations in our family circle. Some things will just have to be upscaled and others downplayed a bit.

Take the traditions of Christmas Eve.

The coal fire will still be used, in its red embered stage, to send the letters to Santa up the chimney. It is just a bit more congested around the hearth with five fully grown adults. There is more of an understanding response from the children ,now older, when charred fragments of letters from previous years fall out in the fireplace on a regular basis during the year.

The stockings are still hung up but it is now a matter of debate whether this should take place before or after the older girls get back from the pub.

I am sorry to admit that the sound of sleigh bells from somewhere in the crisp winters night, between the garage and shed in the garden ,will be absent this year due to an error on my part which saw said musical instrument included in a box of random household items sold at a summer car boot sale. It appears that nostalgia does have a price after all. A bit of a steal if ever there was one.

Young adults generally go to bed more easily but on average much later than when small children. They also tend to wander about a bit more even after a Walton Family type goodnight and curfew has been imposed.

You would, on the basis of media coverage of the laid back characteristics of our younger generation expect a struggle to get them up and moving even on Christmas morning. Not our three. They are usually ferreting about in the bed-end stockings by about 4am followed by whispering and comparing notes and more furtive wanderings along the landing and down the stairs.

Under the Parenting Guidelines for the early hours of Christmas Day we pretend to be sound asleep in our own bed. The overheard conversations and joyful exchanges of our children are reward enough for the sometime travails and anxieties of bringing them up in the world.

It may still be only 5am when they come through to our room. Five on a double bed was not a challenge when the majority were small and indeed struggled to get up over the divan drawer fronts. In recent years, with the pro-rata decrease in space against the increase in the size of offspring I have harboured concerns for the integrity of the bed springs. This is even with the reassurance in the old advertising campaigns that a hippo and a duck could happily co-exist without rolling together. There are ,from our family experiences, strong grounds for a letter to the Advertising Standards Authority for misrepresentation of the ability of pocketed sprung mattresses to cope with an aggregated weight considerably less than indicated on TV. I find my lower limbs now heavily and uncomfortably constricted by arranged youngsters.

The doors to the back room remain firmly closed until there is a correct age arranged order of young adults on the stairs. These are the same stairs that never uttered a complaining creak in previous years. Anticipation in what has been deposited by Father Christmas may be temperered by a desire for a few strong black coffees and a stack of toast and Marmite by the pub revellers amongst our number.

The average size of the presents for young adults may have diminished. One year, so named the 'three bicycle Christmas' consisted of understandably large wrapped items. More recently gift sizes have assumed a disproportionate ratio of size to price. The same unscaleable mound of discarded paper still and strangely appears in the middle of the living room floor though.

Territorial issues over respective corners of the room persist and soon stacked displays of opened presents appear like a 'pop-up' shop in the High Street. Just substitute Pop Annuals and Guinness Book of Records for Banksy and Cosmo publications.

The marshalling of grown up children to a Christmas Day Church Service is so much easier but more likely to now involve two cars on size grounds. There is less of a clamour to take the current favourite toy which is a blessing on logistical grounds and in battery costs.

The return to the comforting odour of a well basted turkey roasting in the oven is quite magical and a perfect background for preparation for a sit down for the main feast. Consumption of exotic and strong alcoholic beverages have recently increased and for the first time in our family history exceeding that of orange squash and other fruit juices. Plates are piled up high whereas in the distant past the liquidiser would be in high demand for a pulped mush of turkey, veg and trimmings. After dinner, there is high demand for bottom and leg space in front of the TV. The purchase of  the largest sofa that could be afforded fifteen years ago looks like a bit of a compromise on the basis of overhanging bodies and limbs.

Close your eyes and soak up the atmosphere of a typical Christmas. If this is what others have referred to under their breath as a 'grown ups Christmas' then I am not at all concrened or worried. I may even go to the pub before tea time and my daughters can buy me a pint- now that will be a first for the time of year.

The fear of all sums

I was never very good at mathematics.

That is unfortunate because it is plain to see that this world of ours is run by and for the benefit of mathematicians in their guise as accountants, actuaries and their sidekicks, the bankers and lawyers. By stating this simple truth I realise that I have now foolishly but justifiably effectively waved goodbye to my chances of making a living, obtaining insurances, a loan and justice.

A grasp of basic, practical maths is a fundamental requirement for human existence.

This will have been evident  to our cave dwelling ancestors even though they did not realise or appreciate it in their short lifetimes. They may have been able to attain the lofty age of at least 20 years old if able to work out that one man against more than one sabre toothed tiger represents poor odds of survival. Holed up in virtual hibernation in a harsh ice-age winter it will have been essential to calculate, in small stick men figures drawn with a charcoal tip amongst the cave paintings, a correlation between potential days of confinement to the amount of meat, grains and berries stockpiled for the purpose.

Mathematics became quite sophisticated in early civilisations and this can be seen in the towering architectural forms in the Americas and on the continents of Africa and Asia and the accuracy in predictions of astral phenomena. It will have been impossible to run an Empire without good acounting principles and it is a matter of contention whether the vast Roman influence died out from the aspirational interests of its enemies or a book-keeping and stock taking error in a small departmental office in downtown Roma.

Maths and Philosophy were the sexy pursuits of the intellectual and academic classes from Newton through to the great minds of the last two centuries.

My own introduction to maths was at a very early age thanks to the indoctrination by Ladybird Books. This, I accept was at an elementary level of home education in my pre-school era of, say, "look at the one dog" and "Can you see the two cats", "point at the three chickens" and so on.

At infant school level I remember vividly the learning by repetition of times-tables either in mass chanting by the overcrowded class or a sing-songy approach which was grim and dirgy in sentiment and not as inspirational a learning method as it was held out to be.

Of course, having absorbed the intricacies of multiplication up to and including the twleve times table I would be easily flummoxed by a maths question of, say, what is seven times eight?. It could take me five minutes of in-head gymnastics to work through the whole of the preceeding tables to get the answer. Familiarity with calculations did give me more confidence.

At the age of 7 my mathematical skills were significantly disrupted by the introduction of the decimal coinage system.It did not arrive overnight so there was no excuse not to be familiar with the basics. All of my usual pocket money purchases, mainly packets of collectable football cards, came with a large printed matrix to aid the conversion of old chunky monies into the new, thin and  modern currency. How ridiculous was, now in hindsight, that tiny, tiny half pence piece?.

School maths was initially a bit of fun. We were allowed to stack wooden blocks of tens and units. Elaborate colouring in sessions would accompany the drawing of every form of chart, graph and gram invented by the minds of the likes of Mr Bar, Mr Pie, Mr Line and, I think he was Hungarian, Mr Histo. They were, in my perception good practical mathematicians.

I was in for a shock at senior school with the introduction to serious maths. Algebraic formula and problem solving was my nemesis. Equations were non-sensical to me. Pythagoras theorem formula left me cold. Other forms of the subject divided and multiplied my insecurities.

The only discipline that I seemed to be able to comprehend and indeed enjoy was set education and in particular the Venn diagram. It was simple and straightforward. What better way to show relationships between different groups of things than by putting them inside large concentric circles and then seeing if any of the subjects shared common points.

I could draw representative Venn diagrams all day with my geometry set compass and use felt tip pens to depict the overlapping elements of the circles.

They were even useful in everyday life and things.

Take as a typical example a Venn Universe of popular things from my childhood  to spread on a slice of toast.

Blue Band Margarine, Anchor Butter, Robertsons Jam, Gales Lemon Curd, Sun Pat Peanut Butter( Crunchy or Smooth), Tate and Lyle Golden Syrup, Nutella Chocolate Spread, Princes Meat or fish pastes, lard, dripping, Marmite, Bovril ,Vegemite (desperate measures), Heinz toast toppers, condensed milk , Cheddar Spread and Dairylea slices.

These as the main subject can be allocated into two sub-sets. The first set is for spreads in jars that do not run when held over your head. The second set is for spreads that have a tendency to run out of the jar when held over your head.

There is only one product which, from this exercise, falls into the overlapping area a classic two circle Venn diagram. Bovril.

 I found this out more by trial and error than practical mathematical logic. At normal room temperature the contents of a jar of Bovril are reasonably stable. However, if held in the hot, clammy hands of children and passed around the breakfast table there is a pro-rata increase in its viscosity.

In my anxiety and curiosity to see if my siblings had left me any Bovril for my morning toast I unwittingly held it above head height and peered into the darkness within. The resulting and inevitable cascade of warm, runny meat extract into my hair and down my face forever lives in my mind as an unpleasant experience and has produced a great mistrust of any cow based product in a jar. Marmite, in comparison is considerably more stable and not made from a cow. You can well appreciate where my loyalties rest to the present day. Oh, and there really was a Mr Venn.

Holmes Alone

Sherlock Holmes could not actually recall if he had ever been to a garden centre.

There had, of course, been frequent visits in his professional sleuthing capacity to Orangeries, Conservatories and other forms of hot houses as these were, in his experience, quite popular places to commit murder. He had found the hot, humid atmospheres very stifling and detested that sweaty, clammy feel of his forehead under the rim of his deerstalker and the stream of perspiration through his good quality, multi pocketed and quilted lined frock coat.

It was out of the question for him to consider taking off a few layers whilst at work. Dr Watson joked that more suitable attire would be Bermuda Shorts and a floral open necked shirt. Holmes retorted that Magnum P.I  had done enough to discredit the art of investigation already without him offering any homage to that amateur.

It was just two weeks to Christmas Day.

Mrs Hudson, his housekeeper, was away on a cultural cruise to the Norwegian Fjords partaking in lectures on Hydro-electric power and troll mythology . Her departure from 221B Baker Street had been awkward in the extreme. Holmes was wholly inept at looking after himself. To her credit Mrs Hudson had prepared an extensive dossier of instructions for re-heating the two week supply of her home made lasagne, steak and kidney pies, liver and onions and sturdy accompanying desserts, mainly apple crumble based.

Holmes had studied the information in his usual meticulous way. He had found fault in many of the food offerings in terms of calorific value, level of carbohydrates to proteins and the relative risk of the incubation of salmonella and E-coli amongst the natural ingredients. He was not in a position to suggest a viable alternative menu.

Mrs Hudson,losing it out of understandable frustration, swore at him openly at this further insult, one of many, to her housekeeping skills. She could not however be angry for very long when faced with the pathetic, pale and sickly countenance of her employer.

Reluctantly but in full acceptance she showed Holmes the array of souvenir magnets which held in place on the Frigidaire the leaflets of all the local take-aways and a few promotional vouchers for Waitrose and Tesco Express. He would, she hoped, be able to avoid upsetting the multi-cultural population of central London in the fortnight of her absence.

She was well aware that Holmes would not actually attempt to leave the house for the duration unless his services were requested from Scotland Yard or typically in past commissions a mysterious source.

Her final comment was like a dagger into the cold, indifferent heart of Holmes, "By the way, you will need to get a Christmas Tree".

It was a seasonal job that Mrs Hudson detested. Perhaps Meg Ryan could make the dragging of a six foot pine through a city street a rather comic event but in reality it was pure hell. It was amazing how slim needles on flexible boughs could accumulate so much detritus from the London pavements. She suspected collusion between the tree sellers and the Borough Council and the exchange of monies for such covert street sweeping to avoid paying overtime within an already over-stretched budget.

Holmes had no idea of from where to acquire a Christmas Tree. His intuition told him to go to the source. This would,he mused mean taking the night sleeper train to Scotland, take a post bus into the Highlands, hire the services of a local woodsman and by this operation return triumphantly with a fine example of a fir tree. The logistics pleased his analytical prowess but he was, above all, a bit tight with cash and by his reckoning a tree by this path would put him back a few hundred pounds....and he would have to get changed out of his silk kimono and calfskin slippers and contemplate leaving the house. Impossible.

Dr Watson, when raised by phone, was not much help. " I'm frightfully sorry Holmes. I have a man for that sort of thing". Sherlock had suspected as much over the years and felt a pang of jealousy but above all a sexual orientation based confusion. If anything he was without preference. "Why not wander up to the garden centre, I believe they have a Christmas display on", Watson added before hanging up.

The conventions and etiquette of such an establishment were new territory. He possessed a few reference works on gardening although heavily biased towards the identification of home grown poisons and the toxicology of plants. His knowledge of the latin names of all things floral was extensive but largely useless for practical living. Holmes recalled a book, given to him by Mrs Hudson by some celebrity gardener/ presenter/ erstwhile author and he retrieved this from the shelf in the lavatory.

The cover showed a grinning, rather flabby individual in blazer and cravat, chino's and brogues. So this was the correct attire he presumed, for the pursuit of a garden based activity.

Three hours later, dressed and groomed he spied out through the letter box onto the bustling Baker Street. He was dapper. It was a new look for him but quite interesting. Perhaps he should rethink his image in the New Year, a bit more casual than dour and formal.Frankly, a bit more 21st Century and not retro-1800's.

It took a lot of effort and anquish for him not to extricate his cane walking stick from the elephants foot holder in the hallway. It was habit but out of context with his blazer and slacks.

The bus ride to the stop closest to the trading estate location of the garden centre was uneventful as far as the other passengers were concerned. Holmes, however, was overpowered by the level of apparent criminality that he espied on board the 66 bus. The driver had used a sleight of hand to divert some loose change from a fare into his pocket. Two youths smirked under the influence of the inhalation of solvents. A shady character was paying far too much attention to the resting place of the pension book of an elderly lady across the aisle. Ink stains on the fingers of a nervous book-keeper were an obvious sign of malpractice. The group of students dressed in prison stripes, masks and carrying cloth bags with pound signs on them were just out on a social at the end of term. He discounted them.

The scene at the garden centre baffled and seduced Holmes. A mass of gaily coloured lights assaulted his senses at the entrance and canned sounds of what he recognised as 'Now Christmas' wafted out of the automatic doors. He had to be nimble to avoid collision and, heaven forbid, any physical contact with the throng of shoppers ebbing in and out of the huge emporium. He was bombarded by sights and sounds of a seasonal nature and in a childlike daze he set about his quest.

Mrs Hudson returned to Baker Street from her Scandinavian excursion between Christmas and New Year.

From the top of the street she saw the flash and strobing of neon blue. Back to normal she thought, fully expectant of the Police and that nice Inspector Lestrade in consultation with Mr Holmes.

She nearly dropped her Norwegian fish based delicacies when, squaring up to the house the source of the lights became evident. The whole of the front elevation was bedecked with strings of gawdy coloured lanterns and bright white icicles hung down from the gutter. Tubular strip lights in the shapes of reindeer, a train ,a Bethlehem Star and other indiscernible creatures and objects were attached to the masonry. An inflatable Santa swayed about in the breeze where it was padlocked to the forecout railings.

Was she in fact at the right address or had the copious amounts of locally fermented glogg on board ship distorted her sense of reality?

Upon entering the hallway the overriding theme of an elvish  grotto continued. Greenery festooned the walls and woodwork. Streamers and paper chains zig-zagged between. In every alcove stood a blood red poinsettia or berry laden sprig of holly. A bass thumping came from the drawing room with the distinctive strains of Slade, Roy Wood and The Pogues. Understandably distressed by the scene Mrs Hudson approached the doorway.

She found the great, intuitive and forensically gifted Sherlock Holmes ,resplendent in a felt Santa Hat, stained string vest and holly motif boxer shorts sprawled on the floor amongst discarded bottles of Warninks Advocaat and the foil trays of take-away food of many nationalities.

The room seemed to be considerably smaller than Mrs Hudson recalled leaving it. It was not on account of her recent period on board ship in a cabin but because of the expansive boughs of the largest non-drop Nordmann tree she had ever seen outside of, perhaps, Trafalgar Square. It truly swamped the room and, stale odours and worse of continuous male occupation for a fortnight aside, it's sweet and sickly resin based fragrance gave her the impression of standing in a Norwegian forest once again.

"Velkommen tilbake Mrs H" pronounced Holmes and he fair leapt up as though he had not been party to the company of another human for some considerable time. He was unsteady on his feet , creaky and stiff jointed and she gathered from this that he had indeed spent much of his time prone on the floor in an egg nog infused haze. In his hand he clutched a magnifying glass which was quite normal although it was of a cheap plastic type commonly found in a novelty cracker.

"You are just in time to help me solve the most heinous of crimes Mrs Hudson.", He continued  "How come, in all my years of rational and intellectual thought, my dedication to the solving of crimes and misdemeanours and a constant battle of wits with my arch-nemesis Moriarty I have never found time to really partake in the delights of the Festive Season?".

With that Holmes cornered and manoeuvred Mrs Hudson under a sprig of mistletoe hanging from the chandelier. As his overly moist lips pressed against hers, Mrs H was reminded that there was still a decent sized turkey in the deep freeze and if thoroughly thawed, like her employer, she deduced there could be a good prospect of a very Merry Christmas indeed.