It is minus 2 and going to drop to minus 6 later tonight. It’s clear and the stars flicker at me up above. Am I feeling Christmasy yet? Well I haven’t done any shopping yet but that’s normal.
The roofs of the cars glitter on Pembroke Road. Ice meanders across a bonnet like the metal has been melted.
Apart from the cars slicking up Pembroke Road to The Downs it’s very quiet. It must be the cold. Perhaps I should have gone into the village to find the Christmas feel.
Piper’s glasswork holds a low glow; it’s warm in the iciness.
Past the Randall Room which is in the side of All Saints Church. The door is open and there’s a lit hallway within. I remember walking past a group of people here I started talking to once all having a fag outside, when I asked they told me they were an AA group. ‘If you’re a journalist you should join us’ one of them joked.
Further down Alma Vale Road the plane tree opposite The Alma has almost lost all of its leaves and stands silent and erect. When I open the grand double doors to the pub, I’m greeted by a blast of warm air and the excited murmur of people into their second, third or fourth drink of the night. It feels like Christmas.
Groups of students sit next to tables of old couples. A mountain of a man with a black shirt and long yellow tie that falls to below his belt downs a pint of something dark and points the glass at the bargirl to indicate his need for another.
The back room is full of tables with eight or ten people eating and wearing different coloured paper crowns. The uniform of the office Christmas party.
I enjoy watching the red faces who arrive with a cold gust, their faces showing the simple pleasure of finding warmth after cold.
On the way home there are loads of young people pouring out of Alma Chutch. Very different from church congregations in Somerset. A star watches over them from the window as the last of them leave. It’s time for home and bed.
The Slow Walker 