December 23rd God of Men and Elves

“Ye have seen his Natal Star,” the Angels proclaim from their Realms of Glory. And so have we. Three days before Christmas we wandered up to Crich Stand around 4.30 and watched a hitherto clear sky typically grow cloud along the south western horizon. Still in the silent darkness we looked down and around seeing all the scattered lights like spilled glitter on the carpet. Then a disembodied voice came from out of the night and we were joined by a star-watcher from Nova Scotia, of course. She hadn’t come especially from Nova Scotia to walk up to the Stand to see Jupiter and Saturn converge. I imagine from her homeland, gazing towards New York City she would have had a better view. Anyway we were all disappointed. However, on the way home I drove down towards Wakebridge and pulled into a muddy lay-by to turn round, when there it was, like a crystal drop suspended between two layers of cloud – Jupiter with Saturn edging shyly behind her (him?). A car in a muddy Wakebridge lay-by heaving up and down with excitement was likely to attract some prurient interest from passers-by, so we alighted, trained the binoculars on the phenomenon and watched it until it slipped down behind a cloud layer.

The day had started with an elf trail at Carsington Water before graduating to the astronomical sensation. The Elf Trail was rather disturbing because

most of the elves were perched in trees astride perilous branches that posed the question of whether elves have the wherewithal to breed. I know for a fact that there are female elves because I was very closely supervised by one when trapped into being Father Christmas at the local primary school. I had to put on my outfit in a lay-by, a dangerous distraction to passing motorists. So convincing was I that my own grandchildren didn’t recognise me, but there was something about this particular Santa that left them uneasy and they kept looking at me strangely. The female elf delegated to be my minder was particularly vigilant.

As well as all this excitement, we were going out, late at night , such a rare event that we hardly knew how to prepare, what to wear, how wet would it be, how cold, how many other people? So we donned our best Christmas sweaters, Deirdre her new woolly hat, me my recently acquired Rohan coat, grabbed our umbrellas and headed excitedly through deserted streets to a ten o’clock rendezvous with a very wet lass in a high-vis jacket at Sainsbury’s Click and Collect. It was the icing on the cake, except icing was not on our list, but walnuts were, but so far have not been found.

Then Wednesday dawned. Except it didn’t. It just slunk its way apologetically into a half-hearted daylight drenched in rain. To cheer us up I put on some 60s Christmas music. The thing about Roy Orbison is he always makes you realise that you’re not as badly off as he is: lost love, abandonment, loneliness and death. This Christmas should be a boycott of all those seasonal songs about being alone, neglected and betrayed:

Last Christmas I gave you my heart But the very next day you gave it away (you gave it away) This year, to save me from tears I'll give it to someone special (special)

Once bitten and twice shy I keep my distance, but you still catch my eye Tell me baby, do you recognize me? Well, it's been a year, it doesn't surprise me

I think this has too much resonance this year; it’s got it all except a mask! There’s no point dreaming of a White Christmas either as meteorological scientists are saying snow will soon be a thing of the past. Nor will we be “driving home for Christmas” with Chris Rea. This year traditions are being honoured in their breaking. Even my festive execrations wrapping presents and trying to tame non-compliant Sellotape have been circumvented rather cleverly. The strategy is either to buy no presents or to only buy ones with square corners. It all used to be so predictable : Christmas, then two good falls of snow, then the daffodils peaking up and winter was all over.

Roy Orbison, Wham, Jupiter and Saturn between them put everything into perspective. Will all those lorry drivers trapped in Kent see the Natal Star? Tolkien, in his wonderful essay ‘On Fairy Stories’ talks about how every fairy story has its ‘turning point’ when we finally know we will emerge from fear and darkness into a joyous ending. To Tolkien the Nativity is that turning point in the ultimate story:

“But this story is supreme; and it is true. Art has been verified. God is the Lord, of angels, and of men – and of elves. Legend and History have met and fused.”