Festivities over, Twelfth Night almost upon us and we're starting to loook at the projects list again. I think the kitchen may be next. Wooden work surfaces are a terrible idea, particularly if, like us, you lack the will power to give them the maintenance they demand. The cupboards have already had one refreshment, and the carcases are plainly getting tired. Much space is wasted, and the cupboard doors seem to have been purpose-built to trap dirt. I don't look forward to getting the work done. Nothing is quite so disruptive as a kitchen refit as I remember from the last experience, so we'll probably decamp for the duration.
The festive hostilities went much as usual: enjoyable moments with family and friends, including the annual skirmish with the M25. I think we'll officially postpone Boxing Day next year and arrange a family gathering some time in January. It was lovely to see the Smith great nephews again: Tom is now a lively, articulate two-year-old, while Toby, at seven months, is placid, smiling and rotund. Both boys are blond, with startling blue eyes, so will break a few hearts when they're older. Martyn's great niece and nephew are smart kids, beautifully behaved and self-sufficient. The pleasure of getting together is slightly dented by the fact that so much of the conversation at the table seems to be about disease, surgery and death. An age thing, I suppose.
The garden is largely dormant save for the weeds, but we still have colour on a few roses and penstemons, the primroses and polyanthus are starting to flower and a lot of bulbs are sending shoots through the surface. It's difficult to get out and enjoy them, though: the grass is the normal winter quagmire, and we have to wait for hard frosts before we can take the compost up to the bin. That will be plentiful in the next couple of months, I've no doubt.
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