Stirrings in the attic

It’s that time of year again … and I’ve given up pretending I don’t love it. Champagne and oysters, French style, at the international bazaar were a good way to  work up an appetite for the 24 days to come.

That old business with the rice porridge, the butter pat, the cinnamon, the wooden spoon and the pixies was taking place up in the attic again. Suffice it to say, I’ve handled some redirections, so listen for the doorbell. The first of the four advent candles has been lit. The first paper door in the calendar has been opened. There was a heart-stopping moment on my grey early morning drive to work, when tens of thousands of white lights came on in trees all down the boulevard, and the incredible beauty of it battled with my urge to write to the mayor and tell him this should stop for at least the duration of the climate summit.

Christmas will always mean Copenhagen to me. Not just a day, but a whole winter period when the house smells of greenery and hyacinths and mulled wine and small surprises. I’m going to celebrate by dusting off my blog, which has fallen victim to my studies but I thought was too good to lose for good.