Twelve Days of Christmas: 2

Two Turtle Doves

Have you ever seen a spotted turtle-dove? It has a black collar with white spots on it. It looks like it’s from a lady’s dress or a pair of butterfly wings. It’s the prettiest of all the doves.

I once saw a turtle-dove standing over another dead turtle-dove because it didn’t want to leave it.

I know about birds because my Grandad gave me his bird book. He gave it to me so I can keep looking up birds even when I’m not at his house because he won’t be in.

Grandad dresses smartly and only wears shirts with collars and long sleeves and they have to have a pocket. He says a shirt without a pocket on the front is no use. He puts a pen in the pocket and his glasses. His other pockets, in his trousers, have got hankies in them. One for his nose and one for a spare in case a lady faints or cries and she needs to use it. Sometimes Grandad wears a suit, like on Christmas and at weddings or special birthdays and funerals.

Turtle-doves make a cooing sound and other doves can hear it from really far away. I know this because I heard one by the river and then I walked to the library with Grandad, which is ages away, and we saw another turtle-dove cooing in someone’s garden. We watched it and listened really carefully and could hear the other dove, the one at the river, calling all the way back.

Grandad told mum the food is crummy at the hospital so Mum brought him some biscuits. But she can’t do it every day because she’s too busy and Christmas is coming and she hasn’t wrapped our presents or done the food shop yet. I asked her what food is she going to get at the shops and is she going to get any cakes. She said Christmassy food like mince pies with a cherry on top and a pudding for the adults – and I won’t like it so I can have swiss rolls instead – and some chocolates and some nuts and probably something nice to drink. And a big fat chicken. But I don’t have to eat that because I’m vegetarian. I will probably get Linda McCartney sausages because that’s what I get every year.

Grandad likes birds but he also eats them. I don’t think he’s eaten a turtle-dove.

I can’t remember Granny’s cooking but she always had lovely cakes from the shops like battenberg and butterfly cakes. She kept them in a yellow tin and now the tin is on top of Grandad’s bookcase and no one’s allowed to touch it except Grandad.

Granny would hum a bit when she poured the tea and Grandad would say ‘Oh my favourite tune!’ and Granny would laugh and kiss him on the head. And when she finished pouring the tea she always, always sat next to Grandad on the couch and I always sat next to them. Even when it was Christmas and everybody was over and there was no room for everyone on the couch, I always sat next to them. 

Twelve Days of Christmas: 5

Five Gold Rings

Five gold rings. One for each winter he’d come to me across the sea on his sailing ship. Finding me at first frost; gone before the darkest day.  Leaving me wet, anchored to the shore, waves pushing me away. Five gold rings. Each holding the hope he will take me as his winter bride once more.

 

 

Twelve Days of Christmas: 9

Nine Ladies Dancing

Slowly, like music box dolls, we turn on the spot. Feeling small I close the gap between us, hoping a change will make me seem bigger, more, enough. Cheek to my love’s chest, I hear a heart beating in time with the record player’s tune.

The dance floor is full. The dance floor is empty. I don’t know. My eyes are closed. Flickering, they visit – all masked – parodies of me, these women who dance through my body and are gone. They dance on.

My love has given me another chance. I am a cat with nine lives and this is my last.

Photo credit: Tilemahos Efthimiadis via Flickr

Twelve Days of Christmas: 11

Eleven Pipers Piping

 

Hairnets on, dressed all in white we look like snowmen. ‘We’re making Christmas, my darling, right here!’ with a twist of her wrist, softly squeezing, she conjures delicate lines of green icing as holly leaves appear on the blank face of the cake.

M-E-R-R-Y C-H-R-I-S-T-M-A-S. I’m in charge of the lettering. It’s easier than the holly but harder than the edging.

‘Me, your grandmother, her mother before her and her mother before that. Your Aunt Nell, Auntie Jeanie, Great Aunt Eleanor – all the way back, eleven women, five generations. Including you.’ Mum comes round my side of the counter, wraps her arm around my shoulder applying the same gentle pressure she does to a full piping bag.

We reach the last order of the day and she takes the sherry bottle from behind the plastic tubs of glacé cherries and mixed peel. She pours what is left into two mugs and passes one to me as she admires my handiwork.

            ‘You’re a fine piper, my girl, and a fine baker!’ She’s being kind, my mum.

She makes my Christmas.

 

Photo credit: Mink via Flickr

 

The Twelve Days of Christmas

Merry Christmas!

It does feel somewhat strange saying this with the fan on, sweating in the heat here in Brisbane, Australia, but it is Christmas time nevertheless. And that means Christmas carols.

A number of years ago my siblings and I stood, cocooned in jackets and scarves, in a packed pew at a local carol service. We warbled away with gusto ever aiming for the high notes – usually missing them – and then we spotted it: a simple typo on the carol song sheet that resulted in much mirth amongst us. 'Hark the herald angels sin' was probably not what the Almighty had in mind by way of celebrating his birthday. And so an alternate story existed: wild angels taking the day off and making merry in their festive woolly jumpers.

This year, I've written a series of alternate interpretations, responses to the English carol 'The Twelve Days of Christmas'. I've written short stories, script, poetry; I've played with style and genre, some are happy, some are sad some are something else. For the next twelve days I'll be posting the pieces here and also sharing excerpts of them via my twitter account @wulftheatre.

I hope you enjoy them and I would love for you to share your own responses to either my creations or the original 'Twelve Days'. Words or music, song or sound, illustration or even movement – whatever you feel inspired to do is very welcome and would be a gift. And, if you like short and sweet, tweet using the hashtag #12DaysOfXmas or post to this blog.

I hope you and your loved ones have a very peaceful, playful, caring, creative festive season!

Twelve Drummers Drumming

 

Hands stuffed deep into the pockets of my oldest coat I walk, head down, hiding from the cold, to our familiar spot. There he is. Sat on the bench facing the swings. He doesn’t turn around. I can see a limp sprig of mistletoe resting on his knee. I can’t see what is coming.

I sit down. Smiling wanly, head to one side, he dangles the mistletoe above the space between us. I remember sighing. He crosses his legs – and I think that must have been a signal – a drilling sound erupts from right behind us. Out of the bushes come twelve grown men dressed in red and white. Twelve Father Christmases all beating a rhythm I can’t recognise, hammering at their long-suffering drums. It could have been festive. It could have been a death march.

            He’s smiling again. He kneels down on the concrete, on one knee, slipping slightly where it’s icy, still trying to hold the mistletoe high – waving it at me, a white flag. It starts to snow. His lips are moving, the drumming gets louder and I can’t hear a word he says.