Boxing Day. The detritus from The Big Day is still about (even if you’ve been very particular about clearing up the wrapping paper).
The fridge: the leftovers. The paper hats and bits of crackers. The little drifts of new items that don’t yet have homes (particularly if you’ve been staying at someone else’s house).
You’re all done on food, all done on presents. You may still be with others, and unable to legitimately sneak off to read your new book (or even, your husband’s new book that you bought for him, but fully intend to read yourself).
What to do?
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Christmas Past
Christmas Day: batten down the hatches. Family. Being at home. Presents, food, etc.
Boxing Day: let socialising commence! The glory years were those in my teens when we would get together with our neighbours and their wider family. Sometimes our other good friends further up the hill would come along too.
Immediately, you have new people to eat your leftovers (and you can eat up theirs). Any tensions that may have built up the previous day can get diffused through being with others.
There was snooker playing. Usually some impromptu oratorio singing (with musical people in all three families). Jokes, teasing. A coal fire on for atmosphere – less for warmth – already having lots of people together.
There might be a spot of TV, if there was a comedy thing on that most people could relate to.
There might well be dog walking at some point (two out of three families being dog owners).
The common was a popular choice (with the option to find extra wood to put on the fire) but it might just be a quick dash across the road to the park, then back for cups of tea.
I regularly reference myself as an introvert, but this kind of party I could handle.
I knew the people, I knew what to expect. I knew that there would be a good time, and one that didn’t require me to be other than myself, on home turf.
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Christmas Present
Today, it’s bright. Quite chilly – but not so bad if you’re moving about enough. Time for a walk then.
Boxing Day walks are enough of a minor tradition that they gain newspaper recommendations for what to do, where to go. We settled for a walk by the river; the securing of a newspaper (with big general knowledge crossword).
The river is high – though I am told not as high as it has been. There is a strange combination – a river in spate, rushing along, and elsewhere, ice that has formed on the standing water on the banks, remaining from previous flood levels.
There is much to examine, if you take the approach of Junior Reader: including the quality of mud under your shoes (and up onto your clothes until they get tucked into socks).
The potential for stick-rattling on the playground railings in the park. The shape of suitable sticks: are they pistols? Light sabres? Pirate cudgels?
The smaller puddles with ice on can be tested with the same sticks. Later, a large black labrador careens through a huge icy puddle and comes out, shaking vigorously and ready for more.
The texture of the wood-chips in the playground is different – ice is still on them, in the shade. It feels rather like what I think it could be to walk on very large-scale breakfast cereal.
The remains of storm damage can be seen, further up the park. We admire a tree, partially rotten inside, that has now come down – and the poor bench that broke its fall, and lost the wooden slats on the back of the bench for its trouble.
There are birds to admire; little shelters to hide behind (ideal for surprising one’s grandparents on the way back). And, as in earlier years, there are pieces of broken tree to pick up and bring back for the fire.
Later, we are about to eat turkey for the third meal in a row. We tuck into soup first, and no one seems to mind.