Three evenings, three lots of carol singing - and all very different affairs.
Sunday night I joined my cousin, Rhian, and her husband, Tony, at the Park Inn in Mumbles for carols with Cap'n Cat & the Sailors. A very enjoyable jolly - if not slightly crowded - event.
Monday night it was into prison for the annual carol service with inmates and invited guests, including the Lord Mayor, the High Sheriff and the deputy Lieutenant of the county. A much more muted time the only excitement being checking to see if the Lord Mayor still had his chain after a power cut and few moments of darkness.
A number of years ago for a few consecutive years I worked with various prisoners to write and present alternative carol services. I thoroughly enjoyed the experiences - like being locked in a room with a dozen Liverpudlian drug dealers - and was always so proud of 'my boys'.
One year I invited Husband to come in and see what I'd been working on. He and Ric, a musician from Zac's, were sitting in the front row when the Lord Mayor at the time went around shaking hands with everyone. He shook Husband's hand and then said, 'And how long are you in for?'
Then Tuesday night it was Christmas Stories at Zac's, a mixture of monologues and carols, followed by celeriac and bacon soup and mince pies. Stu, who moved into the area this year from London way, turned up his nose at the soup when he heard it was celeriac. 'Yuck, aniseed,' he said.
'Try some,' I suggested. 'It doesn't taste of aniseed I promise you.'
He sampled a spoonful, decided he liked it and had a cupful. 'The trouble with growing up in evangelical circles is that every Christian buffet included salads made with grated raw celeriac,' he said.
'Really?' I said. 'Gosh, Wales didn't get celeriac until recently.'
Wednesday was childminding day. Two children this time as GrandDaughter1 followed her little sister's example and had a perforated ear drum. She was feeling okay but couldn't hear much which made conversations rather difficult.
Today it was off to the hairdresser's. A last minute decision on my part as I felt in control with plenty of time on my hands. That was until this morning when I sorted out the presents I'd bought and realised there were people I'd ignored completely. Important people too. So the trip to town for a relaxing hour or so in the hair salon turned into a much longer trip with much hiking back and for between shops.
I found a book in Smith's I thought would make a good gift but it looked very tatty so I went back to Waterstone's to see if they had it in: they didn't. Back to Smith's where I psyched myself up to ask an assistant who looked quite important how much I could have 'this tatty book for'. He studied it. 'It is very tatty,' he said. 'Five pounds?'
'Sounds good to me.'
We took it to the till whereupon we discovered it had already been marked down to £3. Win win.
The good thing about going to a real bookshop is that you get to see lots of alternative choices, pick them up and flick through them before making a decision; the bad thing about going to a bookshop is you decide you want lots of them yourself. Or you want ridiculously expensive books just because they're so beautiful.
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