Today – some Christmas facts at ‘Tis the Season. About parrots.

There is a Suspicious Noise!!!

I am sitting up late, replying to fan emails etc. The Noise jolts me upright. As soon as I react, it is gone, so I am not quite sure whether I heard it at all. Then it happens again. But as soon as I react, it is gone, so I am not quite sure whether I heard it at all. I prepare myself this time, listening hard, so I don’t have to waste valuable reaction time reacting. But it doesn’t happen again, so I sit all tense for some time, straining my ears.

The house is dark and utterly still. No cars for miles around, no noise from the farm. I can hear the LTLP breathing gently in the bedroom. Aside from that – nothing. I recall that I haven’t bolted the front door. Peering through the study door, it seems even darker downstairs, which is probably an optical illusion or something scientific to do with it being further away from the sun.

I resolve to investigate.

Liveblogging: Suspicious Noise.

By now, I am fairly convinced that there is some form of intruder in the house. My evidence for this (a Suspicious Noise) is pretty weak, but I have built it up in my mind, and it won’t go away.

The stairs creak at 10000000 decibels as I tiptoe down. I am torn as to whether to try to be quiet, so I can creep up on the Suspicious Noise, or whether to make as much racket as possible in order that it can hear me and run away. I decide on the quiet route, as I don’t want to wake the LTLP, and I am as scared of her as I am of the Suspicious Noise.

Halfway down the stairs, I start worrying more about the Noise. It might not be somebody knocking something over after all, and could just be a standalone Noise that has transformed into a physical entity, like the dark, fog etc. in the James Herbert horror books. In this case, my intruder plan (make a lot of fuss and try to punch it) will probably not work. I pause for thought for a second.

Downstairs, I tentatively reach round the corner for the lightswitch. Nothing grabs hold of my arm and pulls me physically screaming across dimensions to the Vortex of the Zlith, which is encouraging. Instead, the light comes on. I poke my head around to see an absence of burglar blinking in the glare.

Presumably any human being would now know of my presence and would be hiding. Ready to leap out on me. I take a deep breath and check the toilet. There is nobody in the toilet. I need the toilet. Now would not be an appropriate time. My heart is thumping: bang, bang, BANG, pitifully and pathetically for a grown man on the trail of a minor Suspicious Noise. Standing in the doorway of the bathroom, I peer across the lounge. There is nowhere to hide in the lounge. The Suspicious Noise must be in the kitchen.

There is nothing in the kitchen.

Retreating upstairs, I try to laugh off my worry. But as I turn the lights off I can grasp no reassurance at all. All I seem to have done is to prove that the Suspicious Noise was not Earthly in origin. I console myself by thinking that if it is the supreme aural manifestation of evil then at least I will be able to write a newspaper article saying that bloggers broke the news first.

I creep past the main bedroom and shut myself firmly into the spare room. Hopefully it will get the LTLP first and then not be hungry any more.

I crawl under the duvet, and lie awake for ages.

I do my Christmas shopping.

They have spent about a grillion pounds on renovating Lynn town centre, and now it has a spanking new multi-story car park and gleaming, architect-designed pound shops. I purchase an indescribable thing in a roll for my lunch and gradually tick items off my list.

Up near McDonalds, Santa is selling the Big Issue.

I find this a bit depressing. Whilst he’s always had a bit of a seasonal job, I am sorry to see him in this position. Still – that is globalisation for you and he, as an inefficient monopoly, has lost out.

In fact thinking about it, he has got a bloody cheek coming over here and begging on our own streets. It is because we are known as a soft touch. They have been flooding in from Lapland in such numbers that we do not know what those numbers are.

I do not buy a copy of his magazine as it will send out the wrong messages to the elves.

I do feel a bit sorry for him. It is sad all round. There are children that will see him that will be traumatised by the sight.

It is a shame.

I deliver my Christmas cards.

Delivering Christmas cards is a political act. I scuttle round the village, zipping furtively up and down driveways like a transvestite Baath party activist leafleting South Carolina.

The aim, as ever, is to get in first. That way there can be no suspicion whatsoever that one is giving a Christmas card solely in reaction to an unexpected receipt. Already I have spent several hours pondering the Venn diagram depicting ‘good friends’, ‘friends’ and ‘people who I meet in the village pub and am very friendly with but probably would not describe as ‘friends”, and in an act of calculated aggression, have decided to play it safe. I stagger up the lane laden with several hundred greetings. Short Tony’s dog looks at me sarcastically as I stuff one into his box.

In this year’s Realpolitik I have a distinct advantage – I have skipped village without leaving a forwarding address with many people. Wallace and his wife have been wise to the ploy however, and have sent a card via Mrs Short Tony. I worry that they will think that I would not have sent them one anyway. I sent them one last year. I hope against hope that they have good memories, as I slip my own greeting through their small and rather tight flap.

My plan is to deliver my entire load, disappear from the village and hide, then reappear unexpectedly back on Wednesday in time for the big Christmas quiz night. That way there will be lots of slightly embarrassed ‘thank you for the card Jonny, we haven’t actually got round to writing ours yet, let me buy you a pint instead’s. I will not want them to be embarrassed so I will accept graciously in the true spirit of Christmas.

Now for my masterstroke – I leave one at Luc’s. I know very well that Luc won’t have got me a card, as we don’t know each other very well, but we got quite drunk together a couple of Sundays ago and he seems like a nice chap. Now he will forever be in my debt, which is great as he has quite a big house and is possibly quite rich. He has a very long drive – I skip away from his house with a spring in my step (not literally).

Finally, a declaration of war. A card and some homemade chocolates for Len the Fish. In return for the meat etc. he has given me this year. I know very well that Short Tony will not have given Len the Fish some homemade chocolates. Honestly, I am good at this. I should have been at the trade talks and they would have accomplished something.

Chuckling slightly, I leave my deposit on his front step and sprint back to the car to blow town.

Today’s thing from me is over on ‘Tis the Season.

OK, it’s dated yesterday. But it’s today’s. Honest.

If I have one dissatisfaction with my temporary accommodation, it’s that the television reception is not very good.

I don’t watch a lot of TV. I play bowls on Monday nights now, so don’t get to see University Challenge, so from my ‘must watch’es that only really leaves Eggheads and the Channel 4 News, and anything featuring Kirstie Allsopp or/and space travel. However since my reception has become a Cameronesque snowfest, the Radio Times is suddenly chock-full of interesting documentaries and dramas and nature programmes etc. that I really really want to tune in to see.

The Aerial Man arrives.

I greet him at the door. He has a van, and some electronic testy thing, so I do not ask to see ID and let him straight in. He removes his shoes at the entrance, which impresses me.

Initial readings on his device do not appear to be encouraging.

“I’m just going to follow this wire,” he says, following a wire. It leads out through the rear wall. The Aerial Man asks me to open the back door so that he can examine its progress.

This I do, while he goes to the front of the house to fetch his shoes. At the back door, he puts his shoes on and goes outside. It turns out that the wire does not do anything unexpected in the back garden, so he returns to the back door and takes off his shoes. Announcing that a signal booster might be worth a fiddle, he carries his shoes through the house to the front door, puts on his shoes, goes to the van for the equipment, returns to the door, takes off his shoes and re-enters the house.

By this point I am slightly anxious that I’ve fallen for some sort of shoe ‘cup and ball’ trick, and that I will go to put a pair of my own on later only to find that he has stolen all my shoes with cunning sleight of hand. It does happen. But he seems on the level and we chat amicably about signal reception.

“It’s been a bugger of a morning,” he explains, twiddling a dial. “I got the wrong house, and went next door. But the woman was on the phone, so she just beckoned me in. I think she thought I was there to see her husband. I was hanging around for ages before she asked me who I was.”

“We were both quite confused,” he adds.

Presumably he also had no shoes on at the time.

In the end we establish that he can do nothing without incurring considerable expense, the aerial socket not actually being connected to the rooftop aerial itself. He gives me some more good advice about cable types whilst packing his equipment away.

“How much do I owe you?” I ask.

“No – nothing at all. Sorry I couldn’t do more.”

“Are you sure?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”