If our stay had been for longer than a weekend then there would have been the inevitable pile of post waiting on the mat, some welcome but much less so, and a fridge demanding immediate replenishment. If we had been abroad and even more deeply out of touch with the flow of life-as-usual then there would have been all that news to catch up on: the stock market up or down, the state of the health service, the latest shocking crime, the scandals, the celebrity misadventures, the various forecasts and harbingers of global doom.

Only a long weekend. Not long enough for much to alter but the bittersweet taste of change is still discernible. A purer sort, perhaps, without the imposition of practicalities like having to go to the supermarket or finding a current newspaper. From normality to vacationeer and, then, back again. How much of the significance of any period of travel, whether for business or recreation, to resort or cottage or campsite, is marked by this experience of returning home? The experience of contrast, where the familiar is now tinged with some sort of fresh difference? As we open the door the boys push past and run up to their rooms squealing and tumbling, glad to be home, embracing its familiarity. Making sure that their faith in its certainty has not been misplaced. But after even this short time away it all seems to them refreshed, novel, available for rediscovery like forgotten toys from the attic.

I breathe a sigh of relief, too. It is at moments like this that I notice my centre of mental gravity. Notice as well, however, that there are changes nonetheless, inner ones. I know now, for example, that I do not enjoy camping, even the sort of glam camping we have just done. Not on the cold mornings at any rate, not when it takes the supposedly romantic woodburning stove two hours to get hot enough for a cup of tea.

All this reminds me of watching Mr Ben as a child. A city man dressed in pinstripes and a bowler hat who would set out to work at the start of each episode, passing the children playing their make-believe games,  before finding himself irresistibly drawn into the mysterious costume shop on his route. He would be tempted by some costume that the owner, a man with glasses, a fez and a paternal air, would invite him try on in the changing room. Mr Ben would then emerge through a hidden door into a fantasy-world where his costume became the vehicle for some daring adventure.

A study in quiet rebellion against the conformity demanded of his class and the yearning for carefree childish things. At the end of each episode, Mr Ben would walk home along his familiar street. This time the children in his street would still be playing, though now as characters in sympathy with his latest journey. Cowboys and indians; cops and robbers; knights and dragons.

Transportation and return. Though, as far as I can tell, none of the children in this Mr Ben’s street are playing at camping in a freezing field.

The turkey turned out fine despite being given the minimum of attention this year. When it comes to the big bird I tend to follow Delia myself, but my brother, who dropped by mid-morning, has decided to push the boat out this year and told me that he had spent half the night preparing his according to the latest Nigella.

“You were up till when?”

“Well, gone midnight. After I had prepared it it had to soaked in brine.”

“Brine?”

“Yes. Nigella guarantees it to keep the thing more moist than anything else so I’m giving it a go this year.”

I am not convinced about the brine idea. I recall something from school about osmosis, whereby fluid will cross a semi-permeable membrane when solutions of differing concentration lie either side. In short, water (and hence, I reason, all that beloved moisture) will bid adieu to the bird and end up in the bucket.

Maybe I am wrong. She can’t have made it up, surely. But then perhaps celebrity chefs have to vie with one another to do something distinctive, offbeat or a bit strange, to leave a unique mark on the commonplace turkey. I try to picture Nigella in her beautiful, festive kitchen with her perfectly manicured hand up a turkey’s back end. But then I think she is probably having goose, much more classy I have always thought.

You know, I am not sure the brine made any difference in the end (based on a confidential third party report), but for some with these things the journey can sometimes be more important than the destination.

Father Christmas. I have been propagating this myth in his mind ever since last Christmas. Only he doesn’t know it is a myth yet, does he? I wonder if I should feel a little guilty. True, it is a fun myth, a source of benign wonderment, a little bit of God-lite. I am aware, though, that the temptation to invoke its moral aspect has been hard to resist, the “he only brings presents to good little boys and girls” line. Not that it works terribly well in sonofsoulcompost’s case I have to say. In fact, over the last couple of weeks I have been having to fend off a few tricky questions about FC, things like, “how does he get down the chimney when he is fat and our chimney is narrow?” and, “if he is carrying all those presents won’t he wake the children up when they should be asleep?”

The best I have been able to come up with is, “well, he does it by magic, you see.” And so I dig a deeper hole with my metaphysical shovel. How long will it withstand sonofsoulcompost’s Empiricist doubtings, I wonder? He is only three so I am bound to have a few years left. I could have an Inquisition, I suppose, but that does seem a little extreme.

But I do like Father Christmas. I have missed him all these years and I am glad he is back, even if I have had to reinvent him. Now I think of it I must remember to write a thank you note from me and the reindeer for the glass of whisky and the mince pie.

Did I say “me”? I will have to watch that in future.

What is? I sense you thinking.

Why, Issue 5 of One Eye Grey, that penny dreadful for the 21st cntury, of course.

And so at last the tale of the Toll Raven is told and at its dreadful truth revealed. Go and buy it now, if you dare. No, better than that, buy lots and encourage your friends, family, pets, passing acquaintances, the man who reads your meter, the owner of the disembodied voice who whispers to you at night to forget the diet and eat chocolate instead to do likewise. And if you dare not, try buying it anyway but, instead of reading it yourself, perhaps pass it unnoticed to someone else and see if giant, hairy demon comes to crush them under its hideous, clawed foot.

Play your part in making OEG the cult success it deserves to be. And help make me famous in the process.

Soulcompost, over and out.

With the pens and various items of desk furniture arranged, rearranged and arranged once more for good measure, Bertram Toaster turned his attention to the small dark wooden box with the red button on its top and metal grille set in its front. Specifically, it was the red button that had seduced his attention. Weighing it up, and even though the new job came with the sort of salary that would have brought a fond tear to the eye of Great Uncle Marmaduke, the new mayor doubted that his power and influence extended to being able to conjure up a nuclear strike all by himself. The button, he felt, would be safe to try.

After a second’s delay, a familiar voice emanated from the contraption. Like one who has just heard his winning string of lottery numbers read out over the airwaves, Toaster sat upright with joyous surprise.

“Good Lord! Is that you Shreeves?”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“But I thought you had gone to bring succour your ailing auntie Doris in Clacton for the week.”

“Indeed that was my intention, sir, but with your unexpected election to public office I thought it prudent to be on hand for the first day or two.”

It struck the mayor that Shreeves’s capacity to second guess a situation and arrange to be “on hand” could at times be uncanny to the point supernatural. No one had been more surprised than Bertram Toaster to find himself installed in a plush office in the corridors of civic power that Monday morning; with the possible exception of that other chappie, of course. What was he called now – Livingroom? Mornington? Anyway, there had been no sign of the fellow that morning, only a box of Black Magic on the desk and card bearing the cryptic lines “Good Luck, You’ll Need It.”

The whole thing had been old Tubby Cameron’s idea, part of his great ‘masterplan’ he had called it. “Tell you what, Bertie, old thing,” he’d said one night over a late evening snifter at the Drunes, “Why don’t you stand for London mayor? You could be just the man for the job.”

They had been friends since they were boys in shorts at Beaton College and had continued to rub along even as their careers had subsequently diverged; Tubby into politics (at which he was making quite a name for himself, though Toaster had never really followed the antics and machinations of Westminster and was thin on the details) and himself into, well, largely staying on the good side of Aunt Agatha and out of holy matrimony. But Tubby had been most insistent, had told his old pal Bertie not to worry about a thing and to leave all the work to him and what he had archly called his ‘team’. And so here he now was: Mayor of London with a big office overlooking the river and a talking box from which the melifluous tones of the marvel that was Shreeves now spilt forth.

“Shall I come through, sir?”

“Excellent idea, Shreeves. Step forth into the sanctum.”

Shreeves shimmered into the room. Although Toaster had no idea what he was supposed to do now that he had landed the mayorship, he did at least feel assured that the sailing ahead, with Shreeves on hand to prepare the metaphorical G&Ts, could be nothing less than plain. With a sigh of almost feline contentment, Bertram Toaster reached for a nut cluster.

Soulcompost says: how; oh, how; oh, how did Boris get elected? I’m serious – how?

Each week John interviews some poor unfortunate who has, at great personal cost, taken a stand against injustice or else suffered some terrible fall from grace. Some of the stories have been truly tragic, a few have had redemptive endings even though scars remain (I’m thinking here of his interview with the remarkable abuse-survivor whose name, I’m sorry to say, I’ve since forgotten), and one or two, like this week’s with lone mother Birgit Cunningham, are just poignantly sad.

Birgit, I learn, lives in a small shabby council flat up Ladbroke Grove with her young son. She’s close to broke, ekes out a living by working for a London publisher and, most nights, is just too tired from the demands of work and family and making ends meet to stay up past nine o’clock.

But – and this is why she’s sat in front of John – Birgit is no ordinary single parent. She once had a reputation for being one of the hottest items on the London and LA social scenes. An original It-Girl, her life a seemingly endless string of parties fuelled by daddy’s cash, cocaine and dieting. She is remarkably upbeat about it all, though; doesn’t regret a moment of it, not even a romance she had with Kevin Costner.

“So, how many parties would that have been each night?” asks John.

“Well,” replies the sanguine Birket, “four or five usually,” or words to that effect.

Sitting in the morning traffic, I try to imagine it. Before I had kids I didn’t go to that many parties a year; no, in two years. It’s different now, though. Children really subvert your social life. This past fortnight it’s been everyone in our NCT group’s third birthday. The parties are coming thick and fast. I can barely keep up with the social round. I’m exhausted merely at the thought. No doubt I’ll be plagued by nightmares of Kevin Costner in a clown suit as I crawl into bed at 9pm each night, high on apple juice and sugary icing.

The trouble, I find, with attuning to the small things is that every so often one misses a whopper.

“Do you understand the reason why your car has been immobilised, sir?” The female voice at the other end of the phone was clearly used to saying this line. She sounded polite but resolute, no doubt well-practiced in maintaining professional dignity in the face of outraged and irate callers.

By now, though, I’d gone past anger and was feeling reasonably philosophical. After all, there was only myself to blame.

“I imagine it’s got something to do with the sign I’ve parked beside that says about unauthorised vehicles being wheel-clamped,” I said.

Her tone lightened a little as we discussed the terms of my freedom.

£120: that is the cost of a lesson in acute observation in this part of town. A little steep you might think, but a lot quicker than a long weekend on one of those Arvon writers’ workshops and possibly slightly cheaper.

However, I have not been doing nothing all this time. I have been turning my thoughts to fiction. I’ve been toying with this for a while, by way of pursuing a constructive and inexpensive passtime really, but had a bit of a nudge along the path when my little tale of gothic dread in Crystal Palace (the one I tried to complete in time for last Hallowe’en, remember? Oh, never mind) made it into the small but nonetheless perfectly formed “One Eye Grey“. So, I get to thinking, maybe I should spread my literary wings just a little and see what occurs with a little application. More anon.

So now, Soulcompost, to what heights do you aspire next year? It is only an hour and a half away, you know.

Well, I’m glad you asked. It’s an excellent question and deserves a considered answer. Let me pop a log on the fire, pour myself yet another glass of bo****ks and think about it.

In the meantime, a very happy New Year to us all. May it be a peaceful and creative one.

The man with close cropped white hair stood up from the boxes of ‘Taste the Difference’ mince pies he was arranging on the low shelf in front of him. The sleeves of his orange jacket were pushed up to the elbows. He looked tired I thought, glad there was only an hour or so until he could get home. He pursed his lips and looked down and to one side for a moment. My question, I thought, had clearly struck him as one needing proper thought and due consideration. While I waited for his answer, I tried to make out the picture and words making up the faded tattoo on his forearm. It looked like some sort of insignia, I wondered if it was an old army memento.

“Now, sir,” he at last said, his lined face a study in solemnity and his accent betraying him as a born, or at least mostly bred, South Londoner, “what sort of product would that be?”

There was a time, I am sure, when to ask for panetone in Sydenham would have been an invitation for a slap. But instead he led me to a woman in a dark blue V-neck with fashionable glasses; you know, those old NHS plastic tortoiseshell jobs, only heavier in outline and, needless to say, most certainly not free at the point of delivery. With an official air she told me that, with regret, the Savacentre had sold out of the aforesaid Italian christmas cake. I suspected she had been trained for something like this.

As I stood in the queue at the checkout, my mind turned to the flow and change of the urban landscape. Not only through the rise or fall or refashioning of its architecture, but in the values and aspirations of its dwellers, and never more strikingly than in those those who’ve lived there long enough, I thought to myself, to have beamed with pride as Bobby Moore lifted the Jules Rimet, or celebrated Christmas with, well, Dubonnet. And so, where once panetone might have been seen as the gastronomic plaything of poncey arty types, it is now fare for the masses.

And the masses, it would seem this Christmas Eve, have beaten me to the punch.

Soulcompost would like to wish everyone who stumbles across this blog, regardless of culture, creed, or state of sobriety, a peaceful and joyous Christmas.