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We have had reason of late, to think of heritage and the things passed down from generation to generation. Our consideration of heritage is thanks to the occasional visitor, that comes slinking like a sly cat around every family door from time to time: mortality.
Our families, Mrs C's and mine, have little in the way of family silver; there is little to show for our combined heritage. So it was interesting today to see my mother-in-law's family bible dusted off. The faded leather tome is inscribed on the fly leaf in beautiful copperplate handwriting with the year 1899 and the name of her great grandfather. Equally interesting was another book that belonged to her aunt: May Byron's Pot Luck a collection of recipes from around the country dated 1923.
I pointed out to Mrs C, how timely this book was: with all this talk of heritage and tradition, we were just in time to take its advice for a traditional Christmas. Amongst the many recipes, including Rook Pie that starts with the instruction 'skin and draw six young rooks', there is much advice for the aspiring cook. But from the outset one thing is clear, right from the first paragraph of the first page though: there is no place for men in the kitchen.
I pointed this out to Mrs C and, along with a reminder of her twenty-year-old promise before God and the late Rev A.T.P. Harrison to obey me, I indicated my intention to retire to the lounge on Tuesday while she prepared the Christmas dinner, which this year must consist of our own vegetarian option and a turkey-type option for an elderly relative who cannot under any circumstances be convinced that nut roast is a reasonable equivalent to the more traditional fare.
I have to say that Mrs C put up a number of excellent philosophical arguments about how literally we were meant to take the words from the traditional marriage service. She included a number of tautologies with well reasoned examples of how, had she followed this promise to the letter, things might have gone very much awry at chez Croft over the years - and she managed it in so few sentences, a quite prodigious talent for getting the point across in a small word count, something some of us bloggers could learn by!
So, I will be doing my share in the kitchen as I have every year; a scene that will no doubt be mirrored across the world. I wish you all a very happy Christmas. No doubt we will all be far too busy to blog over the coming days so I say bye for now and to close I offer you the seasonal work of a blogging musical genius who writes of his quest for good musical things for his favourite instrument: Uke Hunt; click here to hear, so to speak.
Most of us are doing similar things in the weeks that run up to Christmas: shopping, work's nights out and such; so I thought it might be useful to add my own brief sage guidance on what is hot and what is not in the Manchester Advent experience.
We had our work night out yesterday afternoon and evening and when I told people we were going to the Radisson Hotel in Manchester there were two distinct reactions: either 'bloomin' 'eck that must be costing you a bit' or 'Yeuch, hotel food is rubbish at Christmas, it will just school dinners'. That is why The Radisson Edwardian Hotel on Peter St gets my first Advent award.
I was one of the many Mancunians who were aghast at losing the Free Trade Hall; that Manchester icon of the working man's struggle, home of the Halle Orchestra and gorgeous gig venue; but time marches on relentlessly and gone it is. Or rather not gone, but transformed into a beautifully modern interpretation of Edwardian Elegance: modern clean lines, glass and space but an equal amount of warm sandstone to make it a sort of cosy-posh. What made it so special though, for our team of about 25 revellers, was the way they just got it all so right. My experience of large hotel events really does amount to school dinners, thrown at you by spotty disinterested waiting staff who looked like they could barely tear themselves away from texting. The Radisson though was far from that - we were served by real grown-up waiters and waitresses who affably shared our revelleries (even laughing at some of the jokes during the Secret Santa presentations - which was more than we did!) and they had a quaint insistence on the quality of their service: bless them, they were aghast when, to rectify the usual meal confusion, we passed plates across the table rather than let them carry them around it. Well done The Radisson I recommend you to my blogging friends and readers.
My award for the most overrated Manchester Advent pastime goes to the Gluwein bars inside the Christmas market (more of the markets shortly). I will not labour the point but must thank 70s Teen for a descriptive phrase that really and truly fits the bill. It took 20 minutes to be served a single warming mug of mulled wine and in that time I had more physical contact with strangers than is good for a man of my age. Teen describes her morning commute as 'a rugby scrum with frotting' - a perfect description of the post-office crowd in the wooden shack that rocked in the wind like an Anglesey caravan holiday.
Out in the fresh air of the excellent, in all other respects, European market, a group of colleagues and I perused the varied wares; which gives rise to my final award, for the most subtle and 
discrete flattery. The award goes to the lovely French lady on the Pashmina stall (at the back of the market towards the left if you are facing the Town Hall - just so you know). Whilst I was buying one of her lovely cashmere and silk Pashminas she mistakenly assumed that my young (half my age) blonde, vivacious, attractive colleague was, you know, with me. I think L was very flattered (ahem).
If you get chance, take a break from the frenetic frotting of shopping and enjoy some of Manchester's Advent attractions: the markets, the big wheel or the ice rink (which, incidentally, doesn't have make the morning walk across Piccadilly chilly round your legs). Manchester's a great place to spend your Christmas preparation.
Flicking through the pages of my notebook I came across this observation from a few weeks ago. From the tram window I saw a man walking across Piccadilly Gardens. What caught my eye were the two angry weals running diagonally across his face from chin to ear, as though he'd been whipped with a cane or stick. His face itself was pockmarked and ruddy, his eyes bleary; and his stumbling gait made me think he was probably one of Manchester's homeless winos. His crumpled clothing, that he had probably slept in and/or fallen over in, bore out the overall appearance; but in each hand he was carrying a pristine white carrier bag, each bearing the smart emblem of the Royal Marines. The contrast could not have been starker and I suddenly felt very sad staring at this shambolic figure. Had he picked up his bags and contents in HM Forces' career office; perhaps determined, in his disordered state, to make a fresh start? I wondered whether the recruitment officers had been kind to him or whether they had scoffed and took the piss after encouraging him to get fit and join up before sending him on his way.
I was filled with a sense of this man's vulnerability: who had whipped him across the face? As he shambled across the square I could see swaggering chavs pointing him out and I was reminded of a wounded antelope being circled by lions waiting for the moment when one of them went in for the kill.
The tram soon passed and the scene went, as they all do. I wondered what my response should be to what I had seen and how it had made me feel. Should I shrug, tell myself to get over it, with a comment that life is tough? Perhaps it might prompt me to make a donation to a homelessness charity this Christmas. Or perhaps I'll forget, as I get carried away with the seasonal preparations, only to come back to my notes, or this post in the new year and feel a moment's guilt - which, like the tram, will soon pass.
A quarter used to be the standard period of time for bill-paying and such pleasures; but with the advent of direct debit, this chronological measurement has fallen into disrepute. Tonight though, as I strolled through Oldham Town Centre I happened to glance into Boots and was surprised to see a pair of legs apparently in mid-air. Closer examination revealed that they belonged to a young - presumably most junior - employee whose job, for the moment, was to stand atop a step ladder attaching something to the ceiling. Guess what it was? It was the first of Boots' Christmas decorations, for tonight - October 9th 2007 - is for Boots, when Christmas begins. This leaves us a quarter of a year until twelfth night in which to celebrate - thank you Boots for rescuing the quarter year.
