After falling off the internet in recent days, I reached out to a few friends around the world this morning - wishing them a happy “Boxing Day”, and none of them outside the UK had a clue what I was referring to.
In the UK, the day after Christmas Day is “Boxing Day”. I just looked it up - because I had no idea of its origins either. The most popular theory is rooted in the Victorian era. In those days, domestic servants were required to work on Christmas Day to serve their employers’ grand feasts. As a “thank you,” they were given December 26th off to visit their own families. Before they left, their masters would give them a “Christmas Box” - a wooden box containing gifts, bonuses, and sometimes leftover food from the Christmas dinner. There you go.
Anyway.
You find me sitting in the lounge listening to Vinyl records on my own. My other half has taken our post-surgery middle-daughter to visit her Mum. I’ve spent much of the morning taking the opportunity to clear the decks - washing up (again), throwing packaging away, discovering clothes stuffed behind bathroom doors, and re-uniting them with the washing machine.
Sabrina Carpenter’s “Man’s Best Friend” album is spinning around on the turntable, filling the lounge with music while our aged ginger cat sits in the patio door atop a blank-box, looking out over the garden. He’s become such a home-body. Our other cat - Kaspar - is out in the garden somewhere, ruining Christmas for a family of mice no doubt.
From time to time our youngest daughter appears - waddling from room to room in her heavily pregnant state. We’re counting down the days now. She seems to be sailing through the whole pregnancy journey - let’s keep our fingers crossed the remainder of the journey is equally uneventful. After falling into bed at stupid o’clock last night, I didn’t wake up until 9am this morning - unheard of for me. I wandered downstairs, had a shower, then made bacon sandwiches for myself and my eldest daughter. It’s almost miraculous - how the smell of bacon can summon her like a demon from the underworld.
Sabrina has finished singing about her boyfriend(s) now - I’ve changed the record over to a guilty pleasure - Jean Michel Jarre’s “Oxygene”. George - our many storied cat - is listening to it with me. Or at least, I think he is. He’s sitting across from me, curled up in a ball. I think he’s quite enjoying the peace and quiet while everybody else is out too. His full name should be “George of the 27 lives”. He used to have two brothers - both of which died young - we think he inherited their lives, given the scrapes he has survived so far.
I should probably get on with something. There must be a rubbish movie on or something. Maybe I’ll go read some blogs - try to catch up. I’ve been off grid for so long, it’s kind of difficult to find my way back.