Give me that old time religion

As a lapsed Catholic, with a very intense religious education at convent boarding school, church services are not part of my Christmas celebrations. I have a crib on display, I appreciate other people's religious observances, and I don't buy into Christmas as a blatantly commercial time of year. I had bought some DVD box sets for my children as presents at their request,Father Ted and Rev.We all watched Call the Midwife, with its wise and pragmatic nuns. The Sound of Music filled most of yesterday afternoon. We may still get the chance to watch Sister Act, though we have missed The Vicar of Dibley. You can see there's a theme developing here. I am not sure if it's significant or just a coincidence.

Some sort of ghost story

The rain lashed against the window and the trees bowed in the wind. The attic windows creaked, and there were strange knockings, coming from the central heating pipes. It was a gloomy March evening, and my friends and I were in an attic bedroom, high up in an Edwardian family house that came straight off the opening credits of the Addams Family. In reality it was a warm and friendly family home, five brothers and one sister, my friend Marianne. We had met on our first day at school. There were pictures on the walls, guitars in the living room and an Airedale dog in the hallway. Her Irish mother was the most welcoming of hostesses. On this March evening we were both aged eighteen, and our friend Debbie, who lived next door, was sixteen. For some reason we had decided to try a ouija board séance. I am not sure who had the idea, and looking back it was slightly out of character for any of us. Marianne and I had been brought up Catholic, and all three of us were down to earth. It didn’t take long to write out some cards, letters of the alphabet and Yes and No. Sitting round a small table we carefully placed our fingers lightly on the glass. ‘Start with some simple yes or no questions’, suggested Debbie. ‘OK’, said Marianne. ‘Am I a girl?’ The glass swerved to Yes and we all looked at one another. After that it was addictive. We must have asked the most banal of questions, but as our confidence grew, so did our curiousity. Who are you? Thomas Wilson. The glass flew round the table, spelling out the name. When were you born? 1774 Where were you born? Manchester What did you do? Draper Where? Market Stead I am certain we found out more about him and his family, but these were the facts I wrote in my little notebook. I worked at Salford Central Library at the time, and knew about local studies collections. On my next day off work I went to the archives at Central Reference Library in St Peter’s Square. We had no idea where Market Stead was, but it turned out to be the top end of market St, where Piccadilly Gardens are now. I discovered entries in the rolls for Thomas Wilson and his shop. At this point I questioned what we were doing. As friendly and helpful as Tom was, it didn’t seem right to be contacting him from beyond the grave to ask if someone fancied you! As I said to a friend recently, why didn’t we just ask the boy in question?! Why call back a spirit from the eighteenth century to sort out our love lives?I went off to university and gave up the ouija board, though I believe my friends continued to contact Tom occasionally. Debbie became a very successful television playwright. I once asked her if she had ever been tempted to use our ouija board experience in one of her plays. ‘Oh no – it was way too far fetched’, she said.

Christmas Past

It's almost 2 years to the day that I last posted on this blog, in response to the news of the death of Captain Beefheart. In turn, that inspired my most prolific blog - a Historic Gig Guide, but it feels time to go back to this one. Maybe it's because I go to see less live music in the winter months, but I also consider and write about other subjects - I just haven't been sharing them in a blog. So Christmas is a time for reconnecting and reflecting. There are many ways to spend Christmas and I have had more than my fair share. In the tropics with my parents, back in the late 60s, we sweltered in equatorial heat as we recreated a traditional Christmas dinner in a house on stilts. In the early 70s I took home an unsuitable older boyfriend who wore a kaftan and a greatcoat through the Christmas meal. He did take off his hippy hat though. By the mid 70s I was married and I started many years of a two centre Christmas, travelling across the Pennines between my parents in Sheffield, and my in laws in Chester. Sometimes I was ill, coming down with the seasonal Christmas cold, and we would stay over. Other times we made a late journey home, fingers crossed that the old Ford Capri, Morris Traveller or Velocette motorbike, whatever the vehicle of the year was, would make it home. Late 70s and I was divorced. My boyfriend was Dutch and we celebrated St Nicholas on December 6th, leaving our shoes out for Saint Nick, his white horse and Black Peter. 1980 came and I was teaching English in Casablanca. My flat mate and I took off to the Canaries for Christmas. We were offered the use a town centre apartment in Santa Cruz de Tenerife by one of her former colleagues. Somewhere along the way, perhaps at the airport in Las Palmas, or on the ferry from Gran Canaria to Tenerife we met up with an American teacher. He joined us and organised a quick trip round the market, purchasing the last available chicken on Christmas Eve. We went to Midnight Mass in a beautiful Spanish cathedral. We drank absinthe cocktails in lively bars. We spent Christmas Day on a nudist beach, just outside the main port. The plump German tourists, slick with sun tan oil and breaded by sand, reminded us to go home and put the chicken on. Marriage and children followed, and once more I found myself travelling back and forth across the Pennines between parents and in laws. This time the car was a reliable Subaru estate. Sometimes the dog was carsick, and the children were home sick. Occasionally their roles reversed. Christmas only comes but once a year, and if I put my thinking cap on I can remember something of each one. Over recent years, and especially since I have been single, a lovely informality has developed, as my children gather round the kitchen table for our now traditional vegetarian Christmas dinner. Except it’s not quite as informal as I imagine. My easy going Christmas has become a tradition they cling to and expect! I still have an unfulfilled ambition for Christmas Day, inspired by a teenage friend who was the daughter of a Bishop in Manchester. As a family they spent Christmas Day serving dinners in the Salvation Army Hostel, and I fully intend to do something similar one Christmas Day soon.