12 days of Christmas – walking off the turkey
Off to Hampton Court for ice-skating. Not actually ice-skating you understand, the Thames last froze over 100 years ago and anyone attempting to skate on it had better be towed along by a speed-boat. No, ice-skating on the seasonal man-made outdoor rink. Well, not actually ice skating on that either - to do that you need to book your tickets in July, 2005, but rather to look at the ice rink installed at Hampton Court and place your bets on which skater will fall over first.
As the day was very mild, falling had a double jeopardy, as there was a half-inch of water on top of the ice. This made for impressive plumes of spray as people shot about the place, but did make everyone a little cautious.
Walking alongside the Thames, pausing only to shout at the puppy not to chase joggers (one of whom was, I have to say, a little bad tempered – well so would I be if I was jogging while the rest of the world was simply strolling or just reaching for the extra-comfy sweat-pants instead) was a good way to work up an appetite for a pic-nic consisting of whatever Christmas dinner had not yet been consumed, forced into a bap.
Why do Christmas dinners always result in so many leftovers? I suspect it’s because people buy stuff to eat at Christmas that they don’t usually eat and don’t even like. Sprouts are the prime example. This year we didn’t have any and they weren’t missed. Having said that, I do now have the oddest craving for one. Maybe the human body needs just three sprouts every year, no more, no less.
What this doesn’t apply to is Christmas Pud. I’ve been road-testing them since November to pick just the right one to serve up to the family (orange panettone).
The swans and ducks on the Thames don’t get sick of an unvaried diet – as we finished our pic-nic, a swan sidled – there’s no other word for it – up in the expectation of a bit of bread. We tossed a bit to the river, it fell short, I stooped to retrieve and relaunch and then the bloody beast launched itself from water to bank in a single slingshot motion, complete with angry hiss.
The angry hiss was almost drowned out by the startled scream that issued from me. The last place I wanted to be at Christmas was in A&E explaining to the nurse that my injury was caused by brutal pecking, explaining to the royal parks constabulary that I didn’t mean to kill the sodding thing but that it bit me and so I strangled it in reflex (easy, so much neck to choose from) and explaining to the chap from the local paper that no, I did not think ‘seasonal swan slayer’ would be a good headline.
As the day was very mild, falling had a double jeopardy, as there was a half-inch of water on top of the ice. This made for impressive plumes of spray as people shot about the place, but did make everyone a little cautious.
Walking alongside the Thames, pausing only to shout at the puppy not to chase joggers (one of whom was, I have to say, a little bad tempered – well so would I be if I was jogging while the rest of the world was simply strolling or just reaching for the extra-comfy sweat-pants instead) was a good way to work up an appetite for a pic-nic consisting of whatever Christmas dinner had not yet been consumed, forced into a bap.
Why do Christmas dinners always result in so many leftovers? I suspect it’s because people buy stuff to eat at Christmas that they don’t usually eat and don’t even like. Sprouts are the prime example. This year we didn’t have any and they weren’t missed. Having said that, I do now have the oddest craving for one. Maybe the human body needs just three sprouts every year, no more, no less.
What this doesn’t apply to is Christmas Pud. I’ve been road-testing them since November to pick just the right one to serve up to the family (orange panettone).
The swans and ducks on the Thames don’t get sick of an unvaried diet – as we finished our pic-nic, a swan sidled – there’s no other word for it – up in the expectation of a bit of bread. We tossed a bit to the river, it fell short, I stooped to retrieve and relaunch and then the bloody beast launched itself from water to bank in a single slingshot motion, complete with angry hiss.
The angry hiss was almost drowned out by the startled scream that issued from me. The last place I wanted to be at Christmas was in A&E explaining to the nurse that my injury was caused by brutal pecking, explaining to the royal parks constabulary that I didn’t mean to kill the sodding thing but that it bit me and so I strangled it in reflex (easy, so much neck to choose from) and explaining to the chap from the local paper that no, I did not think ‘seasonal swan slayer’ would be a good headline.
Labels: Christmas, Hampton Court, ice-skating, pic-nics, swans
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