We’ll be giving Christingle a miss this year – the jelly-tots speared onto the orange being deemed no longer worth the candle (forgive the pun).
So that’s another bit of Christmas in the countryside grown out of.
Again this year, the Crib Service will not see me squatting in the shadows of the church font, prodding my Shepherd forward at the appropriate moment or beaming encouragement at the King reluctant to part with his Frankincense.
I will not be wedged on a half-sized seat in the village school hall watching The Grumpy Sheep or The Bad Tempered Angel turn over a festive new leaf when confronted with a precariously swaddled baby Jesus, wielded like a club by the Virgin Mary.
I never had a Joseph, and now I never will. Never again will I congratulate the mother of this year’s Joseph over coffee and mince pies afterwards (‘Isn’t Alex talented? And what a clever costume!’) whilst secretly seething with envy.
We’ve never really made it past Shepherd. I do a competent shepherd costume with a tea towel, a fake-fur waistcoat and, the ‘piece de resistance’, my late father’s walking stick.
Kings bring out the best in me, but you only get three per Nativity so the odds on landing one are that much slimmer.
When we first arrived, Number 1 Son, then a tiny, perky three year old (what went wrong – where did he go?) landed a toddle-on part as a King. Keen to impress, and with clearly too much time on my hands, my King’s outfit was a triumph of crimson and gold, with curly-toed Arabian Nights shoes and an embroidered satin waistcoat sacrificed from my own wardrobe. The result was complete overkill for a tiny village church, and no doubt resulted in a lot of discreet merriment from the locals. But the costume itself hung around for years, passed down from King to King like an emblem of state, joining a set of papier-mache camel heads as Corporate Village Nativity Resources. Until the cardboard ends fell of the shoes and the waistcoat got lost.
I had hopes after that, particularly when Number 1 Son scored a speaking role at playgroup as The Innkeeper. My interpretation of this role involved adding a money bag and a pewter tankard to the shepherd’s tea-towel costume, and Number 1 Son was pleased as punch with himself. As he distinguished himself by being the only member of the company to remember any lines at all (the staff shunting the cast about the stage like croupiers with roulette tokens, whispering lines and wiping noses en route) I was pleased as punch too.
A family friend asked Number 1 Son what the nativity story was all about.
‘It’s about this Innkeeper…’ he said. That’s professional ego for you.
But it was a flash in the pan. After that, we were back to shepherds.
At least, as a Mother of Sons, I never suffered Mary-envy. Now that must really hurt.
So that’s another bit of Christmas in the countryside grown out of.
Again this year, the Crib Service will not see me squatting in the shadows of the church font, prodding my Shepherd forward at the appropriate moment or beaming encouragement at the King reluctant to part with his Frankincense.
I will not be wedged on a half-sized seat in the village school hall watching The Grumpy Sheep or The Bad Tempered Angel turn over a festive new leaf when confronted with a precariously swaddled baby Jesus, wielded like a club by the Virgin Mary.
I never had a Joseph, and now I never will. Never again will I congratulate the mother of this year’s Joseph over coffee and mince pies afterwards (‘Isn’t Alex talented? And what a clever costume!’) whilst secretly seething with envy.
We’ve never really made it past Shepherd. I do a competent shepherd costume with a tea towel, a fake-fur waistcoat and, the ‘piece de resistance’, my late father’s walking stick.
Kings bring out the best in me, but you only get three per Nativity so the odds on landing one are that much slimmer.
When we first arrived, Number 1 Son, then a tiny, perky three year old (what went wrong – where did he go?) landed a toddle-on part as a King. Keen to impress, and with clearly too much time on my hands, my King’s outfit was a triumph of crimson and gold, with curly-toed Arabian Nights shoes and an embroidered satin waistcoat sacrificed from my own wardrobe. The result was complete overkill for a tiny village church, and no doubt resulted in a lot of discreet merriment from the locals. But the costume itself hung around for years, passed down from King to King like an emblem of state, joining a set of papier-mache camel heads as Corporate Village Nativity Resources. Until the cardboard ends fell of the shoes and the waistcoat got lost.
I had hopes after that, particularly when Number 1 Son scored a speaking role at playgroup as The Innkeeper. My interpretation of this role involved adding a money bag and a pewter tankard to the shepherd’s tea-towel costume, and Number 1 Son was pleased as punch with himself. As he distinguished himself by being the only member of the company to remember any lines at all (the staff shunting the cast about the stage like croupiers with roulette tokens, whispering lines and wiping noses en route) I was pleased as punch too.
A family friend asked Number 1 Son what the nativity story was all about.
‘It’s about this Innkeeper…’ he said. That’s professional ego for you.
But it was a flash in the pan. After that, we were back to shepherds.
At least, as a Mother of Sons, I never suffered Mary-envy. Now that must really hurt.
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