just_writing | Day Nine: The Carol Singers

I love hearing carol singers at Christmas. There are several groups of people within the village who make a big effort; travelling around in scarves and hats, carrying a lantern, musical instruments and a charity box. We do not get the half assed efforts of mumbling teenagers here; squeezing out a single verse of We wish you a merry Christmas and holding out their hands demanding recompense for the indignity of being dragged away from their cathode comfort. Each group sings two or three carols, one outside the door and one or two inside. Hot apple juice, mulled wine, mince pies; all are laid out as welcome and reward. The choirs sing and play and chatter and gossip.

I have lived here all my life, and it is routine like this that binds me to the village. An sense of place, and a sense of belonging. I do not sing carols, but instead I play host - each group that comes to my door is met with a warm welcome, money for their collections, food, drink and cards. Each night in the run up before Christmas, I hear a song outside my door and run to open it, inviting the revellers in, showing them into the front room, standing them next to the tree and the sofa and plying them with warmth and good will. And each group sings my favourite carol, there, next to the door.

Come, they told me
Par rum pum pum pum
A new born king to see
Par rum pum pum pum

And from the door, an echo of a drum.