These thoughts were sown while removing the Christmas decorations from the loft of 104 Petersfield Road before we moved to the top of the hill here at Little Wisley. The widow Moss referred to, was an elderly lady that run a theatre group in her younger days, and despite really needing a Nursing home when she was ninety one, remained in her little bungalow opposite us till she was over one hundred, with the aid of a live-in nurse.
SAINT NICHOLAS DAYS
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Christmas lives in the attic, I've seen it there cat napping in the heat of summer. Daylight disturbs its long night, if bags are packed or tank runs dry. But alas we cannot call it to revive man's love of man until the days of Saint Nicholas. Tired glitter itches to be reborn, and in the dark a tinselled tree that never grew collects the dust of widow Moss. Remembering Christmases before, when Henry died, and Auntie Maud gave birth.
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