Golden Balls

There is something very Christmassy about a plump orange satsuma. Perhaps it is its inclusion in the toe of a Christmas stocking and the eating of it at unholy hour before breakfast.

Along with a pound coin and a chocolate Santa, satsumas figured in the stockings that Santa delivered to my children. I have no doubt that inflation has now caught up withSanta's monetary offerings and there will have been a dearth of £2 coins on the open market recently.

For the life of me I can't remember what Santa put in children's stockings during the war when fruit as exotic as oranges were not generally available. I may have been lucky in that my grandfather was a fruiterer, but my memory is nonexistent.

We officially now have enough mince pies, Christmas cake and shortbread to entertain an army of visitors, should they appear.
Having been bombarded by advertisements proclaiming the superiority of Iceland's mince pies, and with nothing more pressing to do this morning, His Lordship and I took a bus through town to the nearest branch in Easter Road and stocked up.

I of course, being mindful of my forthcoming chat with the doctor, will forsake all but the very smallest mince pie or a crumb or two of cake. Instead I will attack the satsumas and the rest of the fruit bowl until my blood is almost pure vitamin C and I feel too virtuous for my own good.