When you wish upon a cake

Every year my mum made the Christmas cake in October half term and every year we all got the chance to stir the mixture. As we stirred the dark, fruity, gloop we were told to make a wish. This was the best thing about the Christmas cake, better than eating it or smelling it baking on a long autumn afternoon. Every year my Christmas cake wish came true. In retrospect, this was probably because I wished for things which were already likely to happen, in order to maintain the magic, but still, it seemed to work.

This year I had two helpers as I made our cake. I had to pick the egg shells out of the mixture before it went in the oven. I told both children to make a wish as they held the bowl and stirred. They both struggled to think of anything. I’m not sure that either of them actually did it. In fact I strongly suspect that one of them closed his eyes and counted to five in order to shut me up!

When I opened the Christmas cake up this evening to begin the icing process, I was thinking about wishes. It’s interesting how a wish has to be made. You don’t imagine a wish, or think it or feel it or contemplate it; you make it. The word make implies a degree of creation, formulation, construction. Maybe next year I’ll give the children more than a few seconds warning before the recipie requires their wishes. Perhaps they will compose something magical, given the time. And my wishes as I made our Christmas cake this year? I didn’t make any, it’s been a good year and I’m just hoping that the cake tastes as good as it smells.

All is calm, all is bright

By mid-morning there had been two car crashes outside our house. In both instances a driver misjudged the stopping distance in the icy conditions and slammed into another vehicle. Initially, I peered out of the curtains with a degree of subtlety, but once the children realised what was going on there was a scramble for the best view and four hot faces ogled the drivers and misted the windows.

As the road was so slippery, we abandoned plans to drive somewhere in pursuit of deeper snow and walked instead, relishing the powdery crunches as we stepped. It was quiet on the Moss. It was as if the snow had surprised everything into silence. We didn't see anyone else as we passed the orchard and followed the lanes into the open farm land. The scene opened like a pause, an inhalation.

Then it started to rain. We raced home, wet and cold.

Later on we sang 'Silent Night' with my Gran who goes to Ireland tomorrow to spend Christmas with her family. And I thought about being on the Moss, earlier today in the calm and bright. There's something about Christmas carols and snow that leaves me feeling happy.

Pop goes the book

There’s something magical about pop-up books, particularly Christmas ones. There’s something about intricate, paper staircases that draws your fingers to tiptoe to the top and down again. There’s something about doorways and windows that encourages you to push your face into the folds and admire the layered view. My favourite is the story of The Nutcracker.

You open the pages and out pops another world, it really is like magic. The book was flat and all of a sudden it’s a fan of colour and textures. Sometimes a book like this needs to be read at eye level – suddenly you aren’t spectating , you’re there, in the book meeting the characters and running up their staircases. It's like being in a fairy tale as Tom Thumb or the later Thumbelina, and getting to see life in miniature.

For eleven months of the year my copy of The Nutcracker lives in the loft with the other Christmas books. When it is finally December, a place is cleared on a bookcase and the Christmas books are greeted like old friends. Occasionally there are squabbles over The Nutcracker, occasionally I get hoarse from reading it to each child individually on the same night, occasionally the paper gets damaged and Clara and the others are rescued by fine strands of sticky tape. The book must say something to the children about the magic of Christmas, perhaps something along the lines of: if paper staircases can pop out of books, surely Father Christmas can pop down the chimney?

The story of The Nutcracker doesn't need pop-up pictures in order to captivate an audience: it has adventure, magic, romance, fighting, snow and dancing sweets! I don't write stories about any of these things and I don't use illustrations, which means that the words have to pop off the pages and fold themselves into tiny pictures of life instead: it's just a matter of working out how to do it.

Recording Angels

I took my notebook to the school nativity this year. When I pulled it out of my handbag along with a pen, the woman next to me asked, 'what are you doing?' For the first time ever my children’s school has banned photography during performances. Filming is also prohibited. 'I'm recording the performance,' I replied. 'I'm not allowed to take pictures or film it, so I'm going to write about it instead.'

I arrived at the school early so that I could get a good seat. On entering the hall I discovered that the front row was littered with RESERVED signs. Five minutes before the performance began a stream of people, very tall people it seemed, entered the hall and sat down in front of me.

I watched Jo recite a poem. He was supposed to recite the first third, but managed to be subversive by memorising the entire thing and reciting it all. I watched Daniel recite a poem, enunciating every word, with great seriousness. But I was really there to watch Alice. For the first time I was there to watch an angel.

Alice appeared in a white dress, doused with tinsel and smiles. I've watched my boys be innkeepers, shepherds, donkeys, wise men and last year a particularly ferocious Herrod, but this angel thing was new to me. And it got me thinking. Most girls want to be Mary. At my children’s school you can only be Mary if you are in year 2. Alice is in year 1. So what other parts are available to her? Well, there's the part of an angel. There are a couple of slots as an innkeeper’s wife, perhaps even a chance to be a wise man if the school is so inclined, but the possibilities are rather restricted. It occurred to me that the parts for girls are not aspirational. A girl cannot be the mother of god when she grows up and no matter how appealing the idea is to her parents, she will not achieve an immaculate conception. She is also unlikely to be an angel or a man (whether wise or foolish) when she reaches adulthood.

I watched Alice dance angel dances on the staging blocks, squashed by the angel Gabriel, bunches flapping on either side of her tinsel halo, her dimple punctuating every smile. I couldn't write fast enough. I wanted to photograph her earnestness with words. As I scribbled in my notepad, it occurred to me that angels are like writers. They don't play much of a part in the story; they record, announce, summarise and witness. They watch the action unfold from their privileged vantage point, then sing beautiful songs about it. It occurred to me that the job of an angel might not be so bad, after all.

At the conclusion of the nativity we listened to 'One fousand, fousand Christmas lights' - that's what they sang, at least. The head informed us that the school would be filming the performance the following day, presumably to sell to the parents. I wrote a strong protest in my notepad. Then I grabbed my little angel and took a sneaky photograph.