As I cycled through a tiny French village on the way to the boulangerie for one last pick-up of baguettes and pastries, I spotted a tiny old lady going about her daily chores. Hunched slightly, wrapped up against the chill, headscarf pulled tight, she seemed oblivious to the Season. I wondered - optimistically - about her ‘festivities’.
She hummed to herself, greeting each goat by its name as she shook the food waste over the fence. The wind nipped at her. She was glad of the cardigan she’d slipped on under her heavy overcoat. The thought of the fire in her old stove lifted her heart. She’d get the chores finished and treat herself to one of those fancy lemon and ginger teas her granddaughter left last week. The memory of the visit made her smile. Young people in love, dashing here and there to be where their hearts beat fastest. She stood momentarily, eyes moistening as she remembered lovers long past. Shaking her head at the nostalgia, she sang a silly festive song from her childhood, the chickens cocking their heads to stare at her, as if to say “Just shake out the corn, we’re starving and we don’t care what day it is”. Next year’s stack of logs looked tidy. She should get Thierry to move the cuttings from the fruit trees into the barn next time he popped by. Perhaps she should warn him when he phones. He always laughed about how he’d arrive in the wrong clothes for the jobs she had in mind. The wind was due to get stronger so she did a quick turn of the yard, securing all of the barn doors and pushing stones against them for extra security. She didn't want to wake to a banging door and find herself alert for half the night. She’d leave all that staying awake for Père Noël to the great-grandchildren. By the time she shuffled into the tiny kitchen, the stove had turned the place into a sauna. The door stayed propped open for a moment or two, long enough for the cockerel to strut in as if he owned the place. She shooed him out, telling him the girls were looking for him. The oven glove was blackened now. Maybe she’d treat herself to a new one next time she went to the marché. Camille had some fancy-looking tea towels and matching gloves on her stall. Well, she didn’t need much but that would be a treat. Nat King Cole came on the little radio she kept up on the shelf next to the dried hydrangeas, her favourites. Another notch, her feet moving in time with the old crooner as the volume soared. She’d washed up after the lovely dinner her neighbours had brought to her. The dish could be walked around to them tomorrow. The old woman poured herself a tumbler of Pinot des Charentes and reached for the bookshelf. This was her favourite part of the festive season. She was never alone, you see. She had invited herself to the Cratchits for dinner again. Later she would gatecrash Scrooge’s nephew and dance until she got sleepy. She smiled. This was her perfect Christmas.
Love this. These amazing words paint such vivid pictures it feels like I am there.
Such a great Writing