Good Lord is that the time?

I realized with horror this morning that Christmas is a mere four weeks away, and set off in search of Christmas presents. This year everyone is getting something in the shape of the Mannequin-Pis. Even if I have to bake it myself. The Christmas lights are up on the Rue Neuve but there was not much of a Yuletide atmosphere, it was much too warm to get festive. There was a strong wind, but the temperature was 18 degrees Celsius! And we’re nearly December.

I'm not much of a one for Christmas, to tell you the truth. Much as I like tinsel and sequins, I dislike being marshalled into being jolly once a year on command, and usually end up going the other way entirely, being quite grumpy and miserable. More than usual, that is. This year, like last, I will be without Harold, which is one reason to be a bit more cheerful I suppose. At least there's less chance of the Christmas pudding having to be put out by the local fire brigade. (See Christmas 2001 in Warsaw).

The South American pan pipe band were playing soporific rainforest music in the Place de la Monnaie dressed up in the full wigwam, looking for all the world like a trio of extra large turkeys with their trimmings on, ready for Christmas dinner. Brussels sprouts optional.

As the light faded I wandered down the Galeries St Hubert where the Christmas decs this year are very minimalist. Last year they were bizarre in the extreme and slightly erotic. This year they are just plain onion-shaped glowing lanterns that change colour. Very boring. The chocolate shops in the gallery had their Christmas collections on display, but I bravely looked the other way. What I love about the shops downtown is the number of specialist shops selling just hats, or just gloves, or just walking sticks. You don’t find those in UK any more.

A number of bars were already serving “vin chaud” which in the present greenhouse climate is tantamount to serving mulled wine in the south of France. I do hope there’s at least a bit of frost for Christmas. I have spent many a festive season in tropical climes and I can tell you it’s not the same. Oh Come All Ye Faithful has to be sung at below room temperature otherwise it doesn’t sound right. Caledonian Societies still insist on doing full tartan Hogmanays in equatorial climes which is just plain bonkers. It’s far too hot and humid to do the Dashing White Sergeant with any gusto, and the mosquitoes get right up yer kilt.

I continued on to the Grand’Place where as usual there was something wacky going on. The nativity stable (which last year had real live animals!) was erected but not quite ready, it will open on the first day of Advent, 1st December. Night had just fallen, and to a soundtrack of dreamy electronic music a group of stilt-walkers in elaborate Venetian carnival costumes were trying to glide gracefully around, although it is not easy to glide in stilts on cobblestones in a Force 7 gale, albeit a warm one. It reminded me that after the gluttony and anticlimax of Christmas comes the lunacy of Carnival, when Belgium turns into Brazil minus the sunshine. On my way back I came across a carnival shop, stuffed to the gunnels with costumes, masks, wigs, what the French call “Farces et Attrapes”, magic tricks, false noses, that sort of thing. I brushed a tear from my eye when I saw a Zorro outfit, as it reminded me of Harold. I bought a little plastic dog turd to remind me of my dear lamented mythomaniac husband and his love of practical jokes. It's sitting on the mantelpiece as I write this. It's almost as if he were here with me.