Feeding (on) the ducks.

I'm spending Christmas with Lola and her folks who've treated me as one of their own since I first met them five years ago. I'm treated and fed like a king.

Last night Lola suggested we go for a stroll at midnight to check out the annual festive gathering in the old town square and possibly bump into some old pals of hers. It was minus 4 degrees so we wrapped up warm and set off for what I hoped would be a cheerie hour warmed with candles and mulled wine and accompanied by a little music and merriment. After all these years in Poland I still have subconscious expectations of how it would be as if I was back in Blighty. Lola reckoned being outside in the square preferable to the midnight mass which she presumed would be just elderly locals crammed into the ugly church, it did look decidedly uninviting. I was happy with her suggestion as being trapped in any enclosed space crowded with Poles elbowing me from all sides is something to be avoided at all costs.

It was foggy on the road, evocative of the old days by the Thames and Sherlock Holmes films. The only people around were groups of youths on street corners swigging beer and vodka. They stared at us as we were not attired in the usual shell suits, bomber jackets and beanies. Approaching the town square we were dismayed to find it was dark and empty. On returning we found ourselves in the throng of what looked like an average Saturday night, packs of loud tragic looking yobs in various stages of drunkeness and on the verge of hostility. We looked far too smart and they didn't like it, keeping our heads down with a lively pace we made it home in one piece but it was unpleasant. The air had been bitterly cold although I enjoyed the fog, but festive it was not and the Christmas Spirit was nowhere to be seen.

Today the women served up a feast, unaided by any of the men who in Poland stay well away from the kitchen. I washed up which pleased them to no end.

Afterwards I went for a two hour stroll to the park with Lola and the dogs. Lola had gathered up bread for the ducks which she likes to do regularly and finds therapeutic. Once at the pond she remarked on how few ducks there were. Indeed, the waters have teemed with the critters all year and now their absence seemed blindingly obvious and gave the ponds an eerie stillness. Lola then went on to enlighten me. Apparently the birds are caught by individuals and cooked for Christmas. It didn't surprise me. Although the main Christmas dish is carp, this is supplemented with other fish, meat, and, it seems, just about anything else to hand.