Twenty years after a father's funeral service

Yesterday went well. My nephew and I went to the church in Upper Sydenham where his father was such an important and well-regarded figure until his sudden death it Christmastime 1995. Michael spent almost three hours discussing the impact of that death with the priest, Father Paul, at the church itself and then at the rectory, before we came away.

Obviously I can't write here of matters very personal to my nephew. I will simply say that he regarded it as a very important event, to go back after twenty years to see where his father's ashes were buried; and then to speak to the very man who had been his father's friend and spiritual confidant, and who had officiated at the funeral service. I would not be at all surprised to see Michael return, and take that conversation a little further. I can fully see why Wayne trusted Father Paul - a big, warm, welcoming man who showed us humanity, breadth of mind, and helpful insight, but did not judge.

So I'll stick to what I myself did and thought.

We arrived only a few minutes late, despite the unpredictable south London traffic, and were met at the church entrance by Father Paul. We sat informally in the front pews. Fortunately Father Paul was well up to speed concerning my own personal history, and appreciated my wish to be there in support of Michael. I insisted however that the focus should be on whatever my nephew felt he needed to see and discuss. It was essential that the visit covered more than just Dommett family happenings since 1995.

Both Michael and myself felt that we had deferred the visit much too long. This was an opportunity to find out more about Wayne's life, and what he had thought most important. Michael had long imagined that I knew all about my brother, and was simply not telling. It was not so at all. After his teens my brother's life went off in a very different direction from my own, and when we ever met - not more than three or four times a year - we did not speak about anything serious. So in fact Michael already knew much more about my brother than I did.

We both - separately - went out into the private enclosed courtyard to see the unmarked stone slab under which Wayne's ashes had been buried. Father Paul confirmed the correct slab by reference to a 'legal book' which identified who was buried where, with a diagram, which he showed to us. There were no inscriptions on any of these slabs. Having asked Father Paul's permission, I took some photographs to visually identify 'Wayne's slab' for future generations. They would be filed away with the rest of my genealogical material.

We had thought about buying some flowers on the way over, but ran out of time for it. Alone in the courtyard, I cast around in the flower beds for something suitable. But it was two days before Christmas, of course, and there were only leaves. I settled on a small yellow leaf - the simplest of wreaths - but knowing that my brother would have scorned anything elaborate or fussy, counting sincere intention far higher than any kind of purchased display. A humble marker, reverently chosen and placed, was more than enough. It clearly identified the slab in a wider view of the courtyard.

Wayne's ashes were there, under that leaf. Where was my brother himself? Was he looking on, or at least somehow aware of our pilgrimage? Unanswerable questions. I wasn't religious, not even moderately spiritual; I had no faith to provide a positive, assured response.

But later on, when Father Paul asked me as we left for home, I did say sincerely that I thought Wayne 'knew' we had been to his church, and had seen where his ashes were. It didn't feel untruthful to say so. Without specifically speaking of souls and spirits, I did feel that our visit had been noticed. In the same way, I was always aware of Dad whenever I went to Kentisbeare church in Devon. It was a place where we could still meet up. Even though Dad had been agnostic to the end. And myself, although not dogmatically 'atheist on principle', nevertheless taking nothing for granted in the absence of rational evidence, content instead to feel personally responsible for what I made of my own life, without a spiritual safety net to save me from my errors.

Father Paul showed us the Book of Remembrance, in which Wayne's name was written in a fine italic hand with a quotation from an early medieval cleric who was praising those who bear the likeness and manner of saints.

Then we adjourned to the rectory for tea and more talk. We had two generous hours of his time there. He, who must have important things to do at the church so close to Christmas. All I can say is that if most contemporary priests are like him, then Christianity will remain alive and kicking in England. And had he lived, I'm sure that by now my brother would have joined the clergy and made it his true life's work. No doubt we would have been slightly at odds, as siblings will be, but also united as the years drew us closer, as eternity loomed at us both, a black pit of Unknown.

Coincidentally, I caught an interview on The World At One on BBC Radio 4 today, with Ronald Blythe, editor, writer, and author of the 1969 book Akenfield: Portrait of an English Village, which became a successful documentary film-without-professional-actors about traditional rural life, in which Blythe took the role of vicar. See https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ronald_Blythe. I imagine that my brother knew of him. They would have had much to say to each other. Wayne was good with words. He was both a reader and thinker.

And above all, he was an idealist, who expended his main energies on practical pastoral care. So very different from myself! Rightly or wrongly, he put the needs of the community before the needs of his own household. I refuse to judge him on that. If a man follows his nature, and commits himself to good causes on his doorstep, and is inspirational and commendable to those others who share his inclinations, should he be blamed for whatever he neglects? Are not selfishness and selflessness two sides of the same coin, and it all depends on your viewpoint?

Is that the awful sin of saints, to be different, to follow a calling wherever it may lead them, to abandon the ordinary things that ordinary people want?

Mission Accomplished

I've done it. I've finished writing my Christmas cards. I know I intended to try a radical solution to this pre-Christmas chore, but in the end it was simplest to knuckle down to the task as traditionally tackled. I had several stacks of cards, each of a different design, and just got on with it. It took three sessions, but then it was suddenly all done. Fifty-five cards. Family, friends, neighbours, and my 'staff'. All handwritten. I didn't bother with sending emails, except for a handful of people who must have them. I even sent a card - not a mere email - to my step-daughter in New Zealand. A proper job, then.

That notion of emailing a print-out card of my own design proved to be a non-starter. The program I'd thought of using saved the designs in its own special format, which was useless to anyone else (it was a very old program). No doubt I could have worked around this, but time was pressing and I quickly gave up.

Hand-writing things isn't so bad, not if you have a flowing, cursive hand as I have. I'm not saying mine is the best and clearest handwriting there is, but it can be read easily enough. For instance, my doctor had no trouble this morning reading the list of blood tests that I'd prepared for her and wanted her to authorise (I'm very pro-active where my health checks are concerned). And something handwritten is undoubtedly very personal, which is highly appropriate for a greetings card. Indeed, handwriting confers a much more personal touch than any kind of typewritten communication. A pity it's getting rarer.

Next year I'll be better prepared. I really will look into the possibility of luxurious and beautiful Christmas cards, specially ordered well before Christmas, and pre-printed with a festive message of my own devising. Each card could be 'finished off' with extra words or kisses in my fair hand. Taken as a whole, I think the job of sending as many cards as this year would definitely be simplified and shortened. I'm sure it wouldn't be made cheaper, but cost is not the issue. Or at least I wouldn't personally begrudge the expense of ordering a supply of very nice bespoke cards, and sending them to my chosen victims by first class post. (Said in complete innocence of what this might really filch from my pensioner's purse. I may change my tune when I find out!)

Still, for now the task is over and I can relax.

Tomorrow promises to be something of a bacchanalia, walking to Ditchling, having a boozy lunch there, walking back, then staggering out again in the evening, this time down to Brighton - I'd better do that by train, and try hard not to fall asleep on the return trip!

The day after will be interesting. My nephew Michael reminded me recently that his father (my younger brother Wayne) was killed twenty years ago, and he wanted to see the spot where Wayne was buried. This isn't in a public place. It's in the private inner courtyard of the High Anglican church Wayne used to attend in Upper Sydenham in south London. My nephew contacted the priest - it was the same man as back in 1995, known to us as Father Paul. Wayne had been a star member of the congregation.

The precise twentieth anniversary was yesterday, the 20th December - a Sunday - and therefore the priest was keen to arrange a special memorial service to be shared with the entire congregation. But Michael didn't want that; it would be way too stressful to endure a lengthy and formal service, which specifically might not allow him to contemplate the burial place alone and peacefully. He wanted something far more private, devoid of ritual and the sincere attentions of well-wishers. Just him and his father. This was exactly in accord with my own ideas.

So at 2.30pm two days hence, we will be welcomed privately by Father Paul, and Michael can commune with his father in his own way. As I shall too, but separately. I also want to sneak a photo or two - shots to record the exact location of where Wayne's ashes were interred. As a genealogical fact.

I wonder what kind of memory Father Paul has. I last saw him in 1995, and I can hardly remember what he looks like. He will have aged by twenty years, of course, and might seem rather different, even unrecognisable. As will indeed have happened in my own case. I very much doubt if he will remember me when we meet! But I'll explain that I was indeed there, with Adrienne my step-daughter holding fast onto my hand. It doesn't matter anyway. The focus must be on memories of Wayne, and letting Michael salute his half-remembered father. He was young when Wayne was killed, and he may feel tearful at bringing the loss into such a sharp focus. I may too, but for Michael's sake I will hold my own tears back if I possibly can. I think Michael's wife Cheryl is coming (though not their child): perhaps we, Cheryl and I, can talk quietly at a distance while Michael stands alone, staring at a stone slab in a hushed courtyard that few non-churchgoers ever see.

And then we will leave. No doubt Father Paul will entreat us to come again, and soon, but I'll leave that up to Michael. We will have managed to make the pilgrimage just this once in twenty long years. It will be a singularity, an event that may never be repeated. Certainly an exhausting occasion. If we come away satisfied with what we saw and felt, and not too disturbed emotionally, then that will indeed be Mission Accomplished.

A friend's change of direction

I had lunch yesterday with a friend I'd not spent much time with since last Spring. Oh, we'd said hello several times since then, but we'd not set up a one-to-one day together. Now we had. We had a long and enjoyable lunch at a pub down on the coast.

My friend (I won't name her) confessed to feeling tired and somewhat weighed down by the demands made on her from all sides. She had a family to think about, and never ceased to keep them in mind. She had been writing poetry and giving readings on stage in Brighton and London for at least three years. Lately she had started to make a mark in film-making, as an actress, involving travel to Prague and elsewhere. 'Only walk-on parts,' she hastened to add, deprecatingly. And yet, when I pressed her, she admitted to saying yes to a speaking part in a film to be made. The producer had been so impressed with her persona, and her self-expression, that she had landed the part of an Irishwoman. Nobody else would do. It will be a drama dealing with a social evil. I was typically flippant about the Irishwoman bit.

'Bejasus!' I jested.
'Oh shut up, nobody says that in Ireland.'
'But look, you haven't got an Irish accent.'
'I won't need much of one. Anyway, my family do have an Irish connection, even if I'm all Sussex. I can be genuine enough. They want me for my particular appearance, the way I move, and what I can say with my eyes and my face.'

And so a star is born. I shall certainly be keen to find out how she handles the part. No fears, anyway, about her not showing enough sensitivity for the role. She is now busy researching first-hand accounts concerning the social issue that will be explored in the film. (It's vile, and it's now past ignoring it as a topic to bury, so you may guess what it is; but I promised not to be specific about the issue - nor the plot - at this stage) She wants to really 'know' about the malpractice that is the subject of the film; to really understand what the precise social context is; why mothers countenance it for their children; and if possible to get an emotional grip on how it must feel to be personally affected. For although she has been aware of this bad thing for some time, it hasn't come within her own experience. No blame to her - not many ordinary people have yet been face-to-face with it in this country. But it's clearly essential to delve, and get some raw facts from real people, and not just read about it. Filming begins in a couple of months. She hasn't got a lot of time to prepare.

This could of course be the start of a fresh and time-consuming career, whatever the outcome. Her name and face will be kept in mind. She could easily get further offers.

What about the existing stuff - the poetry, the performances? I wondered whether those things might have to recede, and even be abandoned. You can't do it all. You need a little time time for an ordinary social life, anyway.

She said she had come to a crossroads. She'd had a few years of hectic fun, very little of it regretted. She had made many connections, and was well known as a Brighton personality. But some background issues in her life had not been settled. It was time to reorganise. To address some fundamental matters. She was going to move her main home out of Brighton, retaining only a cheaply-rented room as a pied-à-terre so that she could keep up some kind of regular presence in the city without having to live there expensively. She'd miss the constant buzz of Brighton - certainly a city that never sleeps - including the after-midnight nightlife she still treated herself to three times a week. But she missed the simple pleasures of out-of-town life too, such as songbirds twittering at dawn, and the rustling of tall trees in the wind. It wasn't quite the Ca' o' the Cuillins, but it was at least the sunny call of East Sussex, where she retained a large house.

She would not say that the clubbing and bright lights were altogether behind her. But she wanted to go back to living in a proper house with a garden, an upstairs and a downstairs, and many rooms; to regroup, to have her family around her; maybe to buy a small caravan like mine, and do what I do. To get away, now and then, from the pressures of her life and just disappear for a while. In the past she'd seen much of the world, for months on end. She needn't be absent so long in the future. She'd try to see places like Australia once more, but realised also that much of this country was unknown to her, and demanded to be visited too.

I felt good about that. Her wanting some basic things again, which might resolve many problems. And her moving away from the fickle and hard-to-satisfy Brighton spotlight. It would however be ironic if she left the dazzle of one spotlight (the poetry scene in Brighton) only to step into another (the film world).

At any rate all this was her own idea, her own decision, an exercise of free will. Egotistically I hoped that my own history had counted in there as a possible example of how another person could - post relationship trauma, post crippling financial loss - build an entirely new life that clearly had some good points.

Maybe it had, maybe it hadn't. At any rate, my friend's enthusiasm for enjoying the wind and sea at Cuckmere Haven was undimmed. She was so cheerful. And how little she complained. She valued all her family, despite the lack of recognition for good deeds done, and the unkindnesses, sleights and perverse misunderstandings that had come her way from some of them. It made me ponder as never before the pointlessness of family feuding, and how wrong it is to erect walls and barriers between family members.

All of us grow old. All of us will grow frail in the end. Many of us will become bitter, if only from the knowledge that our time is almost up, with so much left undone and beyond doing. And bitter all the more if we were proud and principled and stiff-necked, and thrust offered love and affection far away in disgust, leaving it to wither and die.

Pay by phone car parking

The battle to park one's car just got one step more complicated in Brighton. Brighton and Hove City Council, faced with on-street parking machines that have mostly reached the end of their life, and need an expensive overhaul or complete replacement, have decided to switch over to paying by phone. Paying that way isn't a new thing, but it's new to Brighton. Living outside the city, I hadn't heard that they were going to introduce it. Yesterday I was confronted with this in White Street, a place fairly convenient for the city centre, where hitherto I have been able to park up to four hours on a coin-operated meter:

The adjacent coin-operated machine had been sealed and could not be used. There was another one some distance down the road that would still accept coins.

Hmm. The one functioning machine left in use was a clapped-out thing prone to jamming. And it was a hundred yards away down the hill. Did I want to chance it? Leave my car on a spot I hadn't yet paid for, and dash two hundred yards there and back, on the off-chance of the other machine working?

I had never paid by phone before, and didn't have the necessary app installed on my phone. It would involve too much fiddling around in public, with phone and credit card exposed to passers-by, while I registered and entered my car and credit card details, prior to actually buying some time. I couldn't sit in my car and do it all from there, safely behind locked doors. I wouldn't be able to read the notice and the details on it. (That was Fiona, the dark blue car behind the notice in the picture)

Well, I scurried downhill, successfully obtained a two-hour paper ticket, panted uphill again, and displayed it inside Fiona. Now I was parked legally. All this had wasted time. I had a hair appointment at Trevor Sorbie. I'd driven into Brighton with a fifteen-minute time margin for parking. It had now melted away, and I was in my usual panic rush to be somewhere on time. I did make it, but only just.

Even so, problems remained for the future. This upper part of White Street had now been converted to parking by phone only, meaning that for the future I must remember that Fiona could be left there for a maximum of two hours only, not four as before. This had consequences for my Tuesday late-afternoon trips into town, to meet up with friends. Street parking was free after 8.00pm, and up to now I'd been able to arrive and park from 4.00pm on a four-hour ticket. But now it couldn't be before 6.00pm. I would probably be forced to give up tripping into Brighton on Tuesdays, unless there were a definite event to attend, not just a casual drink. Thanks, Brighton and Hove Council, for impairing my social life.

And in order to park on-street anywhere at all, in or near the city centre, I'd have to get to grips with this app. Sigh.

Hair cut and styled, I nipped into a pub - The Sussex Arms in The Lanes - ordered some lunch and a gin-and-tonic, and addressed myself to downloading the app and setting myself up on it. The promise was that once set up, the app would make paying for parking easy. Hah.

The Council use PayByPhone.co.uk as their appointed phone-payment company. I took the precaution of looking at the Council's website and following the link to the right payment company, rather than just searching for it on Google Play Store. There are of course a number of different companies, all with similar names. It was wise indeed to take the installation of the correct app slowly and carefully in the quiet of a pub, and not attempt to do it standing in the street!

Well, setting-up went pretty easily, I have to admit. So I'm now ready to go. My first pay by phone parking session will be next Tuesday, when I have a last pre-Christmas drink with the girls in Brighton. If all goes to plan, I simply find a convenient space, fire up the app, and enter what I want.

Say I use the same space as yesterday. I'll need to enter my parking location (84878), the amount of time I want to buy (2 hours for £2.00, to take me up to 8.00pm), confirm that I am parking the car with the registration SC10 CUR and no other, and then OK all that. I should get an on-screen confirmation, and can then walk away. My credit card account will be charged, and a message will be sent to the mobile device carried by the Council Parking Officer, confirming that SC10 CUR has that space for the next two hours. And I can view the details of what I've bought on the app. In fact I will build up an online record of my phone-paid parking in Brighton, viewable on my phone at any time, which could well be very useful. The fee for all this is 10p each time I park, so I will actually pay £2.10 next Tuesday, not just £2.00.

There are two major refinements. I can if I wish arrange to have a text message sent to me, to remind me when the parking time is nearing expiry, which could be useful if engaged in Deep Conversation in some pub, but at 10p a pop it's just too expensive. So I haven't signed up for that. The other thing is that I can extend the parking time, using the app, without having to go back to the parking place - which is obviously a great convenience. I can't do it, however, if I have already bought the maximum parking time allowed.

The nagging worry is that the technology won't work as advertised. Either I won't be able to connect and buy parking time; or I can, but the message won't get through to the Council's Parking Officer and he'll give me a Parking Fine Notice. Apparently a Notice erroneously given can be rescinded, but that will involve writing to the Council with evidence of payment, and some hassle.

Do you feel, like me, that it would all be much more straightforward just to insert a few coins in a machine?

I know what will happen. Daily visitors to Brighton, who know what's what, will seek out the few parking spaces near coin-operated machines, because you can buy more parking time using a machine, in addition to the sheer convenience of using coins. People like me will be left with only the limited-time pay by phone spaces. The Council's multi-story car parks will still be coin and card operated, but they will now become much busier, making it harder to park there.

All of it will make visiting Brighton city centre harder, more of a mission than it is even now. It's never been a joyride to drive into Brighton. The blanket 20 mph speed limit as you approach the city centre may keep the traffic flowing, but only at a maddening crawl - and it's difficult to keep within that limit when you want to go uphill, when the car needs some momentum; and Brighton is a very hilly place. And now this latest decision to enforce parking payments by phone...

There isn't much that takes me into Brighton. Granted, the shops are good, the restaurants are brilliant, and I have my hair done there. I can, if it's a daytime visit, and I have time to spare, and the weather is clement, use the train. Otherwise I can see myself giving Brighton the finger. It'll be just too much trouble to go there.

Summoned to Jury Service

Well I never! I was thinking only this morning about Jury Service, and how odd it was that, at the venerable age of sixty-three, and having been a householder for thirty-five of those years, I had never so far been selected for this most important civic duty. And then I come home to find this Summons waiting for me!

It really was on pink paper, by the way. How very girly! Presumably men get a Summons on blue paper.

I had long resigned myself to never serving on a jury. And yet I'd always badly wanted to. It had always seemed like an honour to be selected, an acknowledgement that you were deemed fit to decide the guilt or innocence of others - surely the very essence of Responsible Citizenship. Despite dying young at thirty-nine, my brother had been able to serve, no doubt with distinction. But not me. I'd felt overlooked. In fact, I'd begun to wonder whether I'd somehow slipped through whatever net they use to find jurors. Surely they'd choose me one day, a woman of unblemished good standing? And not make do with the devious, the unwilling and the unfit? But the years had passed, the disqualifying age of seventy had drifted ever closer, and I gave up worrying about it.

But all that is now changed.

I have filled in the reply form and will post it back tomorrow. Nothing on that form, nor the Guide to Jury Service that came with it, suggests that a reason will yet be found to disqualify me from doing my bit for justice. So I expect to have the Summons confirmed.

At the moment, I am bound to turn up at Hove Crown Court on Monday 8th February, and then every day for a period that may last two weeks, but could be longer. Hmm, that'll mean catching a train around 8.00am each day. In winter. Well, when working I used to catch one around 7.00am, so what am I complaining about? And they do reimburse the cost of second-class rail fares. And they'll pay me a small amount for subsistence each day. What's there not to like?

I will go prepared with home-made sandwiches and a book or two to read. Back in 2005, some months after retirement, I agreed to be a witness in a Revenue tax case at Bromley Crown Court. I was there all day, and called to give evidence only at 4.30pm. That was a long and rather boring wait. And the catering arrangements were not optimal. Nor was it possible to chat much. I expect broadly the same this time.

I won't be able to discuss the cases of course. Not with anyone. Not ever. I expect the defendants will be a string of petty thieves and fraudsters, nothing very exciting. But I will never be able to say. I will however give the evidence my full attention, however unsavoury it is, and hope to learn more about human nature. So if I emerge from this experience sadder and wiser, and sighing a lot, you'll know that I learned much.

I am methodical and alert to what matters. I'd say I'm pretty good at separating the believable from the incredible, hard fact from mere persuasion, and arriving at a conclusion based on proper evidence, not just a hunch, nor on too fine a balance of probabilities. And I will certainly speak up while we ponder the evidence. But I hope that someone else in the jury will display the right qualities to be Foreman or Forelady - I don't want that vital job. I wouldn't feel fitted for it. I haven't got the gift of being a good chairperson.

In fact, if I want to take an active part at all, I must try not to appear too intelligent. Barristers don't want jurors who are obviously very clever: they want impressionable minds that can follow an argument, but can't pick it apart. So I shall be quiet and subtly ditsy. Until assessing the evidence that has been presented.

You can tell that I'm looking forward to this, and mean to be conscientious. I feel I've now made it as a full member of society. It's a very important thing for me.

Christmas Cards

If it were just a case of sending and receiving a dozen or so Christmas Cards, all would be pure pleasure. But it often has to be done on an industrial scale, and that turns it into a massive logistical exercise that not everyone can do well. I am, unfortunately, one of those who fail to organise the task in the best way - for instance leaving it all until the middle of December.

I have at least written out my Christmas Card list. That's Stage One accomplished. I now know the size of the job ahead. There are fifty-four individuals or couples on my list. Even if that makes it a short list by some standards, that's still a lot of people to select cards for, then write in them, and then address, stamp and post the envelope. Some local people will get a personally-delivered card. But many cards will need to be stamped, and by the time I get around to that, probably a first-class stamp. For various reasons, a few persons won't actually get a card; but if not, then they must have an email instead. One person will get both a card and a handwritten letter.

There's an awful lot of work ahead. I think this needs some seriously alternative thinking.

It is very nice keeping in touch at Christmas. I've already received a dozen Christmas Cards. I do appreciate the effort spent on them, and in fact they form part of my household Christmas decorations, colourfully (and of course tastefully) adorning my mantelpiece, with the overflow on the Welsh dresser. But I'd happily make do with a sincere 'Merry Christmas, Lucy!' in an email or text. Now how easy that would be for both of us, even if it left the mantelpiece bare...

In the modern world, where travel is easy and personal electronic communication is universal, we can if we want be in touch all the time. And if we are, then it does seem rather superfluous to send a Christmas card to somebody you see quite often, or may actually meet up with at Christmastime. You'll hug and kiss, and say things face to face, and toast each other, and be of good cheer. Why does this need a card as well?

Surely it's best to send cards only to those we can't physically get to - people living abroad, say? And yet I'd have no objection whatever to getting a quick but sincere email from someone abroad, if they were equally content to get an email from me.

Last year I experimented with e-cards. Only those who used email could have them, and only a few persons were actually sent one. I'd paid a subscription to a website (Jackie Lawson) and, having chosen, say, a rather beautiful animated musical 'card', I despatched it with a brief personal message. I received a couple of these e-cards myself. Granted, the 'card' was viewable only in my email inbox, but nevertheless the right festive gesture had been made. And because it was there on my phone, I could take it with me everywhere. It would have been an especially suitable way of sending greetings, if I had been away at Christmas. Sending or receiving an e-card didn't affect our feelings toward each other one bit, and not using card-quality paper must have saved the planet to some degree, more than using even recycled paper would have. So it felt virtuous.

In any case, the Christmas Card as we know it is a modern invention, a commercially-inspired thing as so many Christmas things are, and somehow we have all become trapped in a ritual that binds us all to a massive chore at a time when there is so much else to attend to. Messages of merriment and good intent are fine, but I do question the real worth of pre-printed conventional greetings on mass-produced cards. Wouldn't a homemade card add something extra, something truer? I always feel thrilled to receive such a card. It's impractical, though, to labour over more than a handful.

So what shall I do this year? It's now too late to order a batch of specially-printed bespoke Christmas Cards on high-grade white card, containing this message inside, with holly and berries above it, all in silver or gold:

A VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS FROM MELFORD HALL

May your Christmas be warm and cheerful, and the year to come full of happiness!

With love and best wishes from Lucy Melford

With, of course, a personal message and an appropriate number of kisses underneath, written with a gilded pen in my own fair hand.

Everyone would get the same card - subject to subtle variations in the personal message - so that nobody would be sent a better card than anyone else. All would be treated with exact equality. 

How I wish I'd got a box of cards like this in front of me now, all ready to go. I should have given this some thought in October. It would then be simply a matter of addressing the envelopes, stamping them, and toddling off to the post box! Something to consider seriously for next year perhaps.

But this year?

Well, I think I'm going to be creative. I'm going to try my hand at producing one or more Christmas Card designs of my own invention, and send them by email. The card will be an attachment which the recipient can either just view (as he or she would view a commercial e-card) or actually print out and pop on their mantelpiece. I'd design it to print on A4-sized card or paper, and to be folded so that the message ends up inside and the design outside, all the right way up. If you imagine a sheet of A4, to be folded twice, you put the front design upside-down in the north-west quarter as you look at the sheet, and the main greeting the right way up in the south-east quarter. And the Christmas Card thus created will be stiff enough to stand up properly - I've just done a mock-up with ordinary printing paper. It works.

I'll also attach the design as a JPEG that can be used as a seasonal screen saver, if the recipient so wishes.

I'm sure this idea will do the trick. I feel inspired to work on the design or designs first thing tomorrow.

People who haven't got a computer, or never use email, will get a bought card sent in the ordinary way. (And so would anyone to whom I was romantically attached - but of course there isn't anyone, and I'm not looking for love, even at Christmas!)