We have made the brining mixture for the turkey today so that when we collect it from the butcher tomorrow, it can go straight in for its twenty four hours soaking. It is a very pretty mixture.
The following poem by Carol Ann Duffy appeals to me as a Humanist. I especially love the radio’s prayer which reminds me of a seminal moment in a favourite novel, A Kestrel for a Knave by Barry Hines.
Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer
utters itself. So, a woman will lift
her head from the sieve of her hands and stare
at the minims sung by a tree, a sudden gift.
Some nights, although we are faithless, the truth
enters our hearts, that small familiar pain;
then a man will stand stock-still, hearing his youth
in the distant Latin chanting of a train.
Pray for us now. Grade 1 piano scales
console the lodger looking out across
a Midlands town. Then dusk, and someone calls
a child’s name as though they named their loss.
Darkness outside. Inside, the radio’s prayer –
Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre.
Carol Ann Duffy
Parked just down the road from us is a gift wrapped car! I took the photos at night and they are not very clear but I hope you can get an idea. Every bit of the body, except the glass, is covered in wrapping paper!