'Hark' sang the herald angels, 'Glory to the newborn king and Lambert is a blue, is a blue, is a blue, Paul Lambert is a blue, he hates Norwich'.
The reduced members of the Co-op brass band gathered on the centre spot at half time and tootled a medley of festive pleasers, even if you'd heard them in the Cornhill a million times since November. The sky darkened, hazy blue turning to ink like a spilt pint of Guinness on a tablecloth, creeping, engulfing. The loneliness of the Christmas tree at the topmost flat in the Churchmans complex, twinkling Celina-like, on and off to a small audience.
Speaking of Christmas lights, Terry's shop has had an epiphany. Gone are the cheap multi-coloured fairy lights from B&Q festooned hurriedly over shelf ends and magazine racks; this is a concerted, organised effort by the two girls he employs. Tiny white lights twinkled and winked from dark corners. The Coke fridge, never the most glintiest of commercial appliances, especially in there, sparkled like it had been left out on the frostiest night. Tel grumbled ("Bleedin' take me a year ter gettum off") but the effect was pleasing enough to prevent actual verbal bodily harm.
The man himself was busy last week. He was absent on Monday and Tuesday, shopping in Bluewater for 'bits fer the missus, 'ate Lakeside an'it's jus' dan the road'. He returned on Wednesday, seeing me off to work with a cheery tale about hour-long waits for parking and lukewarm McDonalds breakfast comestibles ("them Mcegg Muffins taste 'orrible an' that 'ash brarn I bought, took two mouf fulls'n' chucked it"). Still, he did well, judging by the Jo Malone and Selfridges bags he was attempting to hide behind the counter.
We'd already decided to go to the Friday night Xmas Curry-Fest down the pub. It was a date. We'd even invited Tony, who'd proved to be such good company the previous week. He'd accepted on condition we let him pay. Tel rubbed his hands together briskly, looking like Fagin faced with a veritable feast of nicked Rolexes from his boys on mopeds.He'd have let Tony pay as well. In the end, he bought the food and I got the drinks. It seemed fairer.
Before this came my office party at work, a lunch time affaire, at a local Italian in Brindleyplace, marked by a distinct absence of senior management and a pleasant atmosphere as a result. They provided the wine (five bottles as folk were driving) and they provided the subsidies (Gnocchi, Sea bream in pancetta and sage jus, Tiramisu, £11 rather than £29). Staff wore Xmas jumpers and paper hats and talked either shop or about the ingratitudes of family members. You've all been there, I'm sure. Yes that picture in your head is a good representation.
Thursday saw Tel AWOL again, running errands for 'er indoors, this time to Fenwicks in Colchester for a new serving dish |  |
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