Back from the land of cuckoo clocks

All things considered, that was a surprisingly pleasant Christmas. We all felt my father's absence but in many ways life has moved on and we are getting used to it being just the three of us. My prime concern, not surprisingly, was my mother's welfare, and although she admitted to having felt a little lonely when my brother and uncle (who was also over for the week) took the dog with them, my father would be proud of her for coping so well.

It struck me recently that I am clearly more worried about her than I am about my brother. I've given the matter some thought and have realised that although both had a number of friends come to the funeral (the presence of my brother's would, we feel, have impressed my father), her loss remains much greater. I can trust Philippe's friends to take good care of him on my behalf, but he and I have a clear duty towards Mother, who has to come to terms with widowhood after 35 years of Father's companionship. Her need exceeds Philippe's, by a long chalk.

Interestingly, Philippe mentioned to me on the way to the airport this morning something which had been bothering me too: the need to tell friends that he was off to spend Christmas "at my mother's", implying (to both our minds) that our parents were separated or divorced. I suggested saying something about "a family Christmas" but even that doesn't seem quite right ...

Christmas Eve was a fairly quiet affair, though it was almost 2am before we went to bed, despite midnight mass having finished two hours previously. We were back at the abbey for mass in the morning, when the pastor, giving communion to one of us after the other, found it very difficult to keep a straight face as he saw first Mother in her new jacket, then Philippe in his scarf and finally me in my kilt, all three of these in the family tartan.

Eating apart, the rest of the day was largely spent reading the various books we'd received: in my case, a panopoly of vegetarian recipe books (Mother having been unable to find me a decent French one), a new Larousse (the standard French dictionary) and various novels. I'd given Philippe, in lieu of a stocking, the smallest bottle of whisky in the world (recognised as such by the Guinness Book of Records) and even when Mother gave him two proper bottles of cask strength whisky later in the day, he still had the cheek to suggest my contribution was a supository!

Yesterday we all watched Shackleton, a 3-hour dramatisation of the explorer's 1914 expedition to the Antarctic - we're related to the Shackletons, hence my getting the DVD for my father some years ago - followed by Marius, the first of Marcel Pagnol's celebrated Trilogie marseillaise, a classic of French cinema which Philippe had given me. A long time in front of the telly, but all highly educational.

I flew back this afternoon, which left little time for anything this morning save for walking the dog in the snow (glorious) and going to see my father's grave again (poignant every time).

Back to work in the morning ... Things should have quietened down now, thank heavens.