I'll be home for Christmas

Solstice. The sun sets at Grantham station although you'd never notice. The light grey goes to dark grey as we sit in the freezing waiting room - they've painted since we were here last year, but they still haven't fixed the heaters. Through the Lincs countryside all lit up by 100w LEDs. It feels almost balmy when we arrive at Skeg, no horizontal hail in the car park this year.

*
Last year, Dave's parents threatened to move to Spain and we thought 2006 would be our last trip, so made our farewells to the seals accordingly. In the meantime, they've bought a house (Dave's parents, not the seals) so we go once again to Donna Nook.



There seems to be fewer pups than last year, but the whiteboard tells the story: an increase of 123, continuing the upward trend.



The notices inform us that we're not to try and animate the seals - they're wild animals and not entertainment. This is patently untrue. If it were so, then why do the youngest and cutest come right up to the fence, waving their flippers and squeaking if they don't like to perform for the cameras? One sticks its nose through the fence as if to say: Take me home! Or maybe it's trying to run away to join the official Seal Sanctuary at Mablethorpe (fresh fish every day).



Later we watch the sparklefest of the Strictly Come Dancing final and discuss who we'd least like to see doing a Latin dance (Andy Fordham and Ann Widdecombe). Then it's time to go out to the Sutton on Sea Social Club. This has to be our last visit: the entertainment is a band we've seen here before, Second Nature (Second Chance more like), with Danny Devito and Van Morrison's bastard love child on guitar, Alan from Les Alanos on bass and a vocalist who possibly attended an X Factor audition but wasn't bad or good enough to get to the Cowell/Osbourne round and now spends an awful lot of time complaining about it. They are introduced thus: "There's not many people in tonight, but they're a great bunch o' lads, so give 'em a big hand". They open with "a little song by Mike and the Mechanics" and move smoothly into "a little something by Chris Rea". There's also a Take That cover, Angels (which we awkwardly dance to) and bravely, a version of Forever Autumn, although it doesn't meld seamlessly into Interstellar Overdrive, unfortunately.

The enthusiastic laminater has been busy since July in creating no smoking signs and, since they've had a door entry system put in, threats towards members who lend their keys to others. The "All Non-Members Must Pay 50p Entrance Fee (including Wives and Girlfriends)" sign has been replaced with a warning about abusive language not being tolerated. There's a school disco foursome playing on New Years Eve. Same Difference'll be here in a few years time, mark my words. A woman complains about Rhydian - "miserably Welsh git" - and says she bought the Leon CD. Dave buys some raffle tickets. First prize: Teacher's Whisky, Second Prize: Red Wine (75 cl), Third Prize: Caffrey's (4 cans).

David has a pint of Rosey Nosey.



All this excitement gets too much and we leave during the third act and walk home along the prom, naming the constellations and watching shooting stars.

*
The sadness of Christmas lights in the daytime.

In Cleethorpes, the sun suddenly comes out, reminding me of the brilliance of Lincolnshire skies. I walk along the iced chocolate beach, before we have to leave to go to Do It All.



On the way back, we're watching windmills turning somersaults in the sunset when suddenly a mist drops and the only the tops of the turbines are visible, alien daisies dancing.



We go out and walk around them in the fog. I want to isolate this element of lonely, cold, muffled silence with these benign, beautiful beasts. People who campaign against them should be destroyed.



*
Up early and off to Skeg to catch the 9 o'clock bus to Lincoln. The front of the bus has a picture of the cathedral and a cartoon of the jolly fisherman on it - for people who can't read. Through the Wolds villages, making me feel like a character from South Riding, until we see the Lincoln spires. Spend a couple of pleasant hours in Lincoln, huffing up Steep Hill and having a delightful lunch in the delightful Pimento Tea Rooms, noting that you have to arrive for elevenses in order to get a seat for lunch.

The train to Doncaster is a tiny one carriage tram. Through the russetty Lincs/Yorks borders looking at the steaming power stations, listening to the local lads out for a Christmas Evening in Donny. They ask the conductor what time the trains'll be running to tonight. "Don't rely on anything," she warns them, but sells them a return anyway because "it's cheaper."

Arrive into the industrial heartland of Doncaster, feeling a little emotion welling; sentimental now that I know I can leave. The view from my bedroom window is still bungalows, church, pit, and grassed over slag-heap.



Later, we go out for mulled wine, a damp carol service (bullied over by the Salvation Army), a curry and meet schoolfriends in the pub for local ale, cranberry juice and arguing about Europe.

*
All I needed to know about life I learned from Xmas Telly:

1) Oh my God, they killed Kylie! You bastards!  The rich and powerful always survive: Dr Who

2) God knows binary: Futurama

3) A Beluga whale singing Fairytale of New York with Shane MacGowan is the best thing I've ever seen: Harry Hill's Christmas TV Burp

4) Watching 70s repeats on UK Gold with my boyfriend and the cat is infinitely better than getting drunk on pink cava and Tesco nibbles with my parents' friends: Wonder Woman.

During this period of enforced socialising, I have a conversation with the next door neighbour about introversion vs extroversion. The lady, who is of the latter persuasion, can't understand understand the difficulties some people face with small talk (although she is talking about her son, rather than me). Having listened to other people having 20 minute conversations about a) car parking in Sheffield and b) slippers, I think I prefer to stay quiet.

We go for a walk around the village, across playing fields, up guinnels, passing the Norman keep, the 13th century bridge and lots and lots of ducks.



I have a Decanter themed Xmas with 2 bottles of Moutardier Champagne and a bottle of Tal Luc desert wine heaven amongst my presents. David has bought two bottles of Triana sherry for his and my parents. His mum and dad thanked him profusely. My dad goes off to check it out in his Hugh Johnson's Wine Book before committing to drinking it.

*
Through the Dearne Valley to the Yorkshire Sculpture Park. One area of  the park is called Arcadia and, looking across the green, green and brown wintery countryside, a windfarm whirring silently on the horizon, it does look like a perfect rural picture. We stomp around Bretton Park, visiting Basket#7, a strange metal claustrophobic shelter, and the Goldsworthy exhibition: a concrete and human hair installation, a ceiling made from logs, and a screen made of twigs, held together with minute nails; a curtain of calligraphy.

Dave gives his version of the Royal Society's Xmas Lecture as he tries to explain to my dad the concept of the expanding universe and time variance throughout this. My dad is just glad David's supernormal sense of direction can get us back to the car park in the dusk. Home down the motorway, past bristling cities of light.

*
The east coast line has been taken over by National Express who promise improved reliability, extra trains, faster trains, fuel efficiency and free milk and honey for everyone. The train is half an hour late, the toilets at Doncaster station are closed for cleaning (although there is no sign of a cleaner,or, indeed, cleanliness) and the train is from the British Rail era of rolling stock: sick-brown upholstery, miserable toilets and slam doors. On the side of the carriage, you can see where the GNER logo has been removed and the National Express sticker attached, like on a second hand van. When I left the dole and started in gainful employment, one thing I promised myself was no more National Express. But capitalism rolls on, unlike the trains.

I'll be home for Christmas

Solstice. The sun sets at Grantham station although you'd never notice. The light grey goes to dark grey as we sit in the freezing waiting room - they've painted since we were here last year, but they still haven't fixed the heaters. Through the Lincs countryside all lit up by 100w LEDs. It feels almost balmy when we arrive at Skeg, no horizontal hail in the car park this year.

*
Last year, Dave's parents threatened to move to Spain and we thought 2006 would be our last trip, so made our farewells to the seals accordingly. In the meantime, they've bought a house (Dave's parents, not the seals) so we go once again to Donna Nook.



There seems to be fewer pups than last year, but the whiteboard tells the story: an increase of 123, continuing the upward trend.



The notices inform us that we're not to try and animate the seals - they're wild animals and not entertainment. This is patently untrue. If it were so, then why do the youngest and cutest come right up to the fence, waving their flippers and squeaking if they don't like to perform for the cameras? One sticks its nose through the fence as if to say: Take me home! Or maybe it's trying to run away to join the official Seal Sanctuary at Mablethorpe (fresh fish every day).



Later we watch the sparklefest of the Strictly Come Dancing final and discuss who we'd least like to see doing a Latin dance (Andy Fordham and Ann Widdecombe). Then it's time to go out to the Sutton on Sea Social Club. This has to be our last visit: the entertainment is a band we've seen here before, Second Nature (Second Chance more like), with Danny Devito and Van Morrison's bastard love child on guitar, Alan from Les Alanos on bass and a vocalist who possibly attended an X Factor audition but wasn't bad or good enough to get to the Cowell/Osbourne round and now spends an awful lot of time complaining about it. They are introduced thus: "There's not many people in tonight, but they're a great bunch o' lads, so give 'em a big hand". They open with "a little song by Mike and the Mechanics" and move smoothly into "a little something by Chris Rea". There's also a Take That cover, Angels (which we awkwardly dance to) and bravely, a version of Forever Autumn, although it doesn't meld seamlessly into Interstellar Overdrive, unfortunately.

The enthusiastic laminater has been busy since July in creating no smoking signs and, since they've had a door entry system put in, threats towards members who lend their keys to others. The "All Non-Members Must Pay 50p Entrance Fee (including Wives and Girlfriends)" sign has been replaced with a warning about abusive language not being tolerated. There's a school disco foursome playing on New Years Eve. Same Difference'll be here in a few years time, mark my words. A woman complains about Rhydian - "miserably Welsh git" - and says she bought the Leon CD. Dave buys some raffle tickets. First prize: Teacher's Whisky, Second Prize: Red Wine (75 cl), Third Prize: Caffrey's (4 cans).

David has a pint of Rosey Nosey.



All this excitement gets too much and we leave during the third act and walk home along the prom, naming the constellations and watching shooting stars.

*
The sadness of Christmas lights in the daytime.

In Cleethorpes, the sun suddenly comes out, reminding me of the brilliance of Lincolnshire skies. I walk along the iced chocolate beach, before we have to leave to go to Do It All.



On the way back, we're watching windmills turning somersaults in the sunset when suddenly a mist drops and the only the tops of the turbines are visible, alien daisies dancing.



We go out and walk around them in the fog. I want to isolate this element of lonely, cold, muffled silence with these benign, beautiful beasts. People who campaign against them should be destroyed.



*
Up early and off to Skeg to catch the 9 o'clock bus to Lincoln. The front of the bus has a picture of the cathedral and a cartoon of the jolly fisherman on it - for people who can't read. Through the Wolds villages, making me feel like a character from South Riding, until we see the Lincoln spires. Spend a couple of pleasant hours in Lincoln, huffing up Steep Hill and having a delightful lunch in the delightful Pimento Tea Rooms, noting that you have to arrive for elevenses in order to get a seat for lunch.

The train to Doncaster is a tiny one carriage tram. Through the russetty Lincs/Yorks borders looking at the steaming power stations, listening to the local lads out for a Christmas Evening in Donny. They ask the conductor what time the trains'll be running to tonight. "Don't rely on anything," she warns them, but sells them a return anyway because "it's cheaper."

Arrive into the industrial heartland of Doncaster, feeling a little emotion welling; sentimental now that I know I can leave. The view from my bedroom window is still bungalows, church, pit, and grassed over slag-heap.



Later, we go out for mulled wine, a damp carol service (bullied over by the Salvation Army), a curry and meet schoolfriends in the pub for local ale, cranberry juice and arguing about Europe.

*
All I needed to know about life I learned from Xmas Telly:

1) Oh my God, they killed Kylie! You bastards!  The rich and powerful always survive: Dr Who

2) God knows binary: Futurama

3) A Beluga whale singing Fairytale of New York with Shane MacGowan is the best thing I've ever seen: Harry Hill's Christmas TV Burp

4) Watching 70s repeats on UK Gold with my boyfriend and the cat is infinitely better than getting drunk on pink cava and Tesco nibbles with my parents' friends: Wonder Woman.

During this period of enforced socialising, I have a conversation with the next door neighbour about introversion vs extroversion. The lady, who is of the latter persuasion, can't understand understand the difficulties some people face with small talk (although she is talking about her son, rather than me). Having listened to other people having 20 minute conversations about a) car parking in Sheffield and b) slippers, I think I prefer to stay quiet.

We go for a walk around the village, across playing fields, up guinnels, passing the Norman keep, the 13th century bridge and lots and lots of ducks.



I have a Decanter themed Xmas with 2 bottles of Moutardier Champagne and a bottle of Tal Luc desert wine heaven amongst my presents. David has bought two bottles of Triana sherry for his and my parents. His mum and dad thanked him profusely. My dad goes off to check it out in his Hugh Johnson's Wine Book before committing to drinking it.

*
Through the Dearne Valley to the Yorkshire Sculpture Park. One area of  the park is called Arcadia and, looking across the green, green and brown wintery countryside, a windfarm whirring silently on the horizon, it does look like a perfect rural picture. We stomp around Bretton Park, visiting Basket#7, a strange metal claustrophobic shelter, and the Goldsworthy exhibition: a concrete and human hair installation, a ceiling made from logs, and a screen made of twigs, held together with minute nails; a curtain of calligraphy.

Dave gives his version of the Royal Society's Xmas Lecture as he tries to explain to my dad the concept of the expanding universe and time variance throughout this. My dad is just glad David's supernormal sense of direction can get us back to the car park in the dusk. Home down the motorway, past bristling cities of light.

*
The east coast line has been taken over by National Express who promise improved reliability, extra trains, faster trains, fuel efficiency and free milk and honey for everyone. The train is half an hour late, the toilets at Doncaster station are closed for cleaning (although there is no sign of a cleaner,or, indeed, cleanliness) and the train is from the British Rail era of rolling stock: sick-brown upholstery, miserable toilets and slam doors. On the side of the carriage, you can see where the GNER logo has been removed and the National Express sticker attached, like on a second hand van. When I left the dole and started in gainful employment, one thing I promised myself was no more National Express. But capitalism rolls on, unlike the trains.