Sprouts and thoughts on those who aren't with us

It’s not the most inspiring view but it’s the view from my kitchen window as I prepare Christmas lunch.

I live on an access road so little vehicle traffic but it’s the main walking route from the top of our little town to the high street.

​Every few minutes, today, someone has walked past with their dog, partner and / or children. Everyone is happy and out with a purpose as the shops are closed, so they are either visiting someone or just enjoying being outside.

It's at times like this that I miss my mum the most.  I would collect her and my father on Christmas Eve, at the crack of dawn, then drive them to our house.  My father would be as sour and bitter as ever, but my mum would be like a small child.  

She would giggle and laugh as my husband joked with her.  They would have long conversations on German Flying Aces of WWII (when my father lost his sight he decided my mum would read to him rather than have audio books, so she became quite the authority on different subjects) and she would nurse a glass of sweet wine for most of the day.

But, around 10am, when I would put the meat on to cook, and my father was dozing on the sofa, Hubby would take the opportunity to read a book and mum would sneak out to be with me whilst we peel, chopped and prepared the veg.  I have one wonderul memory of her at our house in Bicester.  The kitchen was not designed to have two people in it so whilst I was in and out of the oven, she sat in the door way of the kitchen, on the stairs, peeling and preparing sprouts with a glass of bucks fizz (mainly orange juice and a little champagne) on the step beside her.

All through the prep she giggled and chatted about everything and anything.

Now as I stand in my kitchen, putting little cross cuts in the base of my sprouts, just as she always did, I'm back there, 12 years ago, with her, preparing the vegtables for our dinner, hearing her laugh and missing her so very much.