2 Weekend
what’s inside
Saturday, December 18 – Sunday, December 19, 2004
Contents
SANDS OF TIME P6&7
It’s my life ........................3 In the news.........................4 Talking heads ....................4 The week in pictures...........4 Past/present .......................5 Close-up on Brighton ...........5 CLOCK THIS IN STEYNING P5
Around the world ............6 & 7 THE NEW MISS MARPLE P24
PICKING THE PERFECT TREE P11
Late breaks .........................7 Reading matters.................8 Cooking in style ..................9 Drink talking......................9 Weekend walk .................10 Gardening ......................11 DIY .......................................11
WIN A PIECE OF SUSSEX P8
The vet ...............................11 Cover story ..........12, 13 & 14 TV preview ......................15 Pick of the week ................15 The week’s TV .............16-23 Vanora on the box ............24 David Roper ....................24 A FRILLING CAKE P9
SWITCHED ON P15
COVER: SIMON FOWLER/EMI CLASSICS
the rant I ADMIT it. I’m a fully paid-up, badge-wearing member of the Bah Humbug Brigade. Yes, it’s official: I hate Christmas. If you’re not religious, if you’re self-employed, if you don’t have children – tell me, please, what is there to like about an annual consumer-fest which simultaneously traumatises mind, body, soul and bank balance (not to mention filling your favourite hang-outs with office parties, full of people intent on photocopying their backsides)? Christmas starts in late August (out come the festive goods as soon as the gazebos and barbecues have been cleared away) and continues until your entire peer group is skint, depressed and hung over on January 1. There’s nothing worse than clearing away the Christmas tree (if you have one) on the twelfth day. By that stage, you’ll want to forget the festive season ever happened – but the tree won’t let you, having somehow succeeded in dropping needles the length and breadth of your abode. You’ll still be
Christmas comes but once a year – and that’s once too often for me finding them in your bikini come June. Christmas Day is a strategic minefield. Where to go? Oooh… decisions, decisions! Spend it with relatives and get bored witless by sitcom re-runs and the Queen’s Speech while everyone lolls around, clutching their over-full bellies and groaning at one another. Or you can spend it with party-loving friends and end up in a room full of over-imbibed people who would probably rather be somewhere else (with the partner and children they
don’t have, for example). If you’re lucky, you might get some dry turkey and anaemic roast potatoes, as mine host will probably be too drunk to tell the saucepan from the skillet. The season of goodwill has turned into the season of “demonstrate your love with expensive presents”. We are bombarded constantly with adverts for “must-have” items, with the underlying implication that failing to buy them will make us rotten friends and parents. And if you don’t organise your present shopping
with military precision, you’ll find yourself doing it on Christmas Eve, dutifully queuing for umpteen hours to park in the town centre, only to find the shelves have been denuded of everything but selection boxes and socks. I’m sure we all have romantic ideals about Christmas: Log fires, six inches of snow, perfect gifts and happy, smiling faces. Like most things that are over-planned, the reality does not live up to our expectations. More accurately, it involves getting hot under the collar while trying to find decent gifts in crowded stores, an onslaught of turkey so intense it makes you want to turn veggie and red faces all round when family and workplace feuds emerge for their annual airing. Even if you choose to leave the country at Christmas, you’ll have to reckon with exorbitant air fares and yet more long queues. Dear Santa: I ask one thing only. Please come and rescue me on your sleigh. Jo Chipchase
Is something bothering you? Then get it off your chest by emailing rant@theargus.co.uk Only contributors who include their full name and address will be considered for publication, although we shall only show an abbreviated form of the address. We reserve the right to shorten letters.
barking
Martin Fish