At this time of year I sometimes wish the days could speed by as quickly as they do when I transcribe my grandmother's diaries. (We've already got through 4 months since the beginning of the year, if you follow me.) I love it when snow starts to fall and for a short time afterwards when the country is like one of those Saturday Evening Post advertisements from the 1950s depicting a young Ronald Reagan smiling broadly as he scampers home with several cartons of Chesterfield cigarettes for his family. But very quickly the snow turns a Stalinist grey and life is reduced to an endless round of confrontations with people presenting their "best wishes" (and in particular "good health"). It is at this time of year, too, that the French observe the tradition of "tirer les rois" which my dictionary translates as "eating Twelfth Night Cake". Slices of marzipan cake are distributed to the eager populace and, if you are particularly unlucky, you break your teeth on the plastic roi and get to wear a paper crown. Give me the Chesterfields every time...
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