Santa and the Elves Steal the Show

There was a change in routine for this Lady today. I took the bus up to Mortonhall Garden Centre, commonly known as Klondike , a most unlikely and romantic name for a garden centre on the edge of what remains of the green belt surrounding Edinburgh, to have coffee with yet another widowed friend.
It has never been my intention to collect widows as friends, but there seems to be a preponderance of us at the moment and that set me thinking of what the collective noun for a gathering of widows might be- perhaps a wailing of widows? Not that there was any wailing in the café at Klondike this morning as we munched on toast and downed our coffees, but being recent enough widows our respective husbands were introduced into the conversation as we ranged over the usual subjects of Brexit, Covid and Independence and everything in between.

I was eager to off load a birthday card for a granddaughter’s 18th birthday on Friday and the collective present for her family before they return to Rannoch for Christmas and New Year. I stood on the doorstep for the handover, a necessity not only for the rules but also because 2 of the grandchildren had been isolating after classmates had had Covid symptoms.
In exchange, I was given Daughter#2’s favourite walking sock with a hole in it and asked if I could mend it. Given that I am half blind for doing fiddly things, hate darning holes and she stitches every day, albeit in skin not socks, it was a hard ask and task for me. Still, it’s done now, relief all round.

So, another day that has slipped into history and there are only 9 more sleeps till my patio Christmas. Frankly I would have preferred Christmas cancelled to having a complete lockdown in January, the most depressing month of the year, when there will be without doubt a surge in Covid cases after people go mad with their socialising.