21 November 2015
I work from morning till night on CIPA business, to make amends for my rubbish, unpresidential behaviour yesterday. I don’t finish, and I probably don’t deserve to. 22 November 2015 It is Stir-Up Sunday. Well, no, it is not actually Stir-Up Sunday, but in our house it is, because we were worried the brandy might not make it through another week. I am a sucker for the smell of Christmas, me. The first graze of the orange zest makes me think of foil whispering on the tree, lights spilling and baubles spinning colours across the room, the fresh nutmeg and the woody curl of the cinnamon sticks, rich dark brandy-soaked raisins, the crackle of paper and hiss of candle flame, deep green of holly and fir, red of ribbon and cranberry. Of course, life in our house is nothing like this at Christmas, but I have watched the films and read the books and I know what it is supposed to be like. And the mixed spice smell is enough to make me feel we might achieve it this time. I think that every year. After attending to the pudding, I return to my slides for the insufficiently Proper and Serious diversity task force launch event. It will be improperly and unseriously happening very soon indeed.
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