Tending to curse darkness,
it takes two matches, then
the beeswax kindles.
The clementine marmalade potted up last night still looked runny, but when I opened a jar, it had a reasonable soft set on it. No need to pour it all back into the pan.
And to match the marmalade, I finally sewed all the corners and the ends in on this rather quaint garment, knitted in one piece on a circular needle from a pack of yarn from a cheap supermarket of German origin which will remain nameless.
Not the most elegant or flattering item of clothing, but I worked the pattern out myself on squared paper, and it is very chunky yarn, so that's hardly surprising. The big old Bakelite buttons which I found in the button tin, came, I think, from an old coat of my mum's. I do like wearing warm sleeveless things in winter, down the back seems to be the coldest part.
First Sunday in Advent, time for the first mince pie of the season and to listening to the Advent service on Radio 3, perhaps the moment I feel happiest about Christmas.
I went into St Brieuc the other day where they were putting the Christmas lights in the trees with a crane vehicle thing.
A number of people, like the woman on the bike with the child on the back, and me, stopped to watch and remark on this, which may indicate a lack of sophistication or much else going on, but I prefer to think it shows a curiosity and pleasure in life.
I'd taken the camera because of late I've got out of the habit rather, and then now and then I see something I'd like to snap and regret not having it, and there are also certain things I've meant to record for a long time. One of them is this frieze on the pediment of the post office in St Brieuc. It features a topless classical kind of god and goddess, of benign rather than fearsome aspect, but the god has a quill pen in one hand and an old-fashioned telegraph machine, like the one in 'Lark Rise to Candleford', in the other, and the goddess, naked breasts akimbo, is chatting on the phone and leaning on a mail box, with a telegraph pole and wires in the background. I've long loved this bit of municipal sculpture, which I now notice is signed 'Le Goff' and probably I ought to find out more about it; I can't quite work out how much conscious humour it contains.