Alice & The Cheshire Cat

Today’s blog is my first after completing a couple of days hiatus from creating content for website . A much needed Christmas break after an emotionally challenging month after the recent passing of her mother.

While my spouse spent her yuletide with her newly widowed father in County Durham, I ventured westward to Cheshire to join my sister, her husband and his family.

My destination the county that shares it’s name with the cat written about by Lewis Carroll in Alice Adventures in Wonderland. A grinning fictional creature whose body sporadically disappears, momentarily leaving just a mischievously smirking visage.

My sister Helen does have a Cheshire cat named Lucy. Although chances of seeing it grin aren’t high. In fact the miserable bloody thing makes the perennially downcast singer/songwriter Morrissey (of nearby manor Davyhulme) seem positively flushed with joy…… That’s probably over-egging Morrissey’s ecstasy levels, but hopefully you get my drift.

I’m unsure whether Lucy bears this downbeat approach to life as a consequence of our Helen not being over enamoured with the feline’s parasitic behaviour. Thankfully for me, though, my forty eight hours of freeloading doesn’t appear to have affected my amicable relationship with my sis…… Hopefully!

Along with my mother, who I took with me from West Yorkshire, we received hospitality akin to attendees of a feast at the court of Henry VIII.

That being said, the two days in Cheshire bore some dissimilarities to a Tudor banquet. For instance, while dining our party utilised knives and forks (apart from one-year old Alice), also there was greater control of flatulence at our table (apart from Alice). Additionally, I saw no beheadings (unless you count Alice’s doll, who lost her bonce on being accidentally dropped)……. Actually, there were more parallels than I initially thought!

Unashamedly, we dined on culinary platters of festive plenty, while quaffing heartily on wine. Each day mater and me were waited on hand and foot by our splendid hosts.

Their self-set objectives that of providing two big tables of guests, two marvellous meals, in conjunction to caring for their daughter’s Megan and Alice. Goals that were more than exceeded by my hospitable family members.

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I’m sitting in a hotel room in Macclesfield as I commence my first post-Christmas Day literary offering. It’s just gone 3am and I’m unable to kip – The consequence of racing thoughts and catarrh fuelled coughing fits.

When I say racing thoughts yours truly refers to many epiphanies that flood my mind; not that I’m ruing missing yesterday’s Boxing Day racing meeting at Wetherby.

I’ve thoroughly enjoyed my yuletide holiday period in the Treacle Town at the foot of the Peak District hills. Two days in receipt of excellent hospitality, thought provoking conversation, along with witnessing my mum successfully refrain from uttering brisker words which form part of her vocabulary when not in company.

I’m hotel in situ due to the lack of a bed for me at Helen and Steve’s Cheshire home. That matters not, though, as they bequeathed me warmth of welcome, excellent cuisine, along with plentiful beverages of both the grape and grain. There may’ve been no room at the inn for GJ Strachan to kip, but a heartier Christmas I’d have struggled to find.

Sitting a few hundred yards up a shallow incline from my hotel is Macclesfield train station. At this time of morning metaphorical tumbleweed not locomotives pass through platforms 1 and 2. I’m unsure where the trains sleep on a night, but I’d like to know their slumber secrets.

On my return home to West Yorkshire on Thursday afternoon, I’ll get to spend some time with my wife Karen whose also returning home around the same time.

So I’ll be celebrating my Christmas a bit late with my spouse. I can’t promise to spoil her in the manner I was over the festive period, however, can guarantee we’ll not be accompanied at any time by a bloody miserable Cheshire Cat!

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