I arrived in the town after a brief trip to see my grandparents to root me as ever back to the North West. Back pack making me "look very muggable"according to Irene, I went to the town hall to complete the sisterly reunions. Mags allowed me to leave the bag with her and I went shoe shopping, for about ten minutes until Irene showed up presenting a more enjoyable option for the day. The sky was blue and we ex-mancs found a steamy coffee shop, meringue cake and tap water on, well, tap. Old friends joined us to share news, make plans and swap stories. Lizzy, James and I have now gone over the "friends for over half our lives" threshold so giving me the easy company of solid friendship that I was beginning to crave.
Coffee was shared and company changed. It has become a tradition with my sisters to hold a "fake" Christmas if there's any reason we aren't together on the day. This started after our parents' divorce when the phrase "going home for Christmas" suddenly raised more questions than it answered. As we have long since lived in different towns it has become a fixture for most years. It normally involves a nice meal and four Longworth sisters enjoying our company without stress or blame on any side. So Tuesday was Christmas.
The Aumbry in Prestwich was our host. This tiny restaurant in the suburbs where we grew up is decorated in white and gold. Cutlery sparkles on the tables and glasses shine as they catch reflections of candles and tea roses. Margaret then provided further seasonal decorations to our table with tinsel and lights, coordinating Christmas hats and tiny silver crackers. Wearing paper crowns in July did raise a few questions and a debate among the staff about whether they wanted to put a bit of Christmas music on in the back ground. Having already sunk aperitifs backed by Crosby and Bowie and sung our Christmas song we were happy enough without.
Taking the chance to sample the taster menu we were served cheese puffs with crispy pastry that seemed to be filled with Primula, then a take on the Bury Market snack of black beans with vinegar, here deep fried. The taste was of our childhoods growing up here and set up the black pudding scotch egg with ketchup which followed well. Irene's gluten intolerance was no problem apart from us stealing pieces of the cornbread off her plate.
Goat ham inspired groans of "does that taste familiar?" whilst I mentioned again that "I'm just back from The Gambia" and the kale accompanying the beef was the taste of dark green vegetable I dream about whenever potato leaves hit the hob at home. I very almost asked for more. The only disappointment for me was that I had to share around my glass of the Chardonnay served with foamy mushroom soup because I famously don't like it. Otherwise we swapped presents, stories and thoughts, relaxed in our familiarity and with good food to help. The final plate of petits fours had a cheerful Merry Christmas scrawled across it.
Arriving home in a taxi that seemed ridiculously cheap, we laughingly regaled the streets with Christmas cheer. As I ran up the stairs to Margaret's flat my shoe, a smart thirties style beige sandal that I wear everyday due to its ability to cope with walking and looking professional, fell apart. The ankle strap hung on leaving the sole to slap forlornly against my foot in a jerking rhythm. Still, as I attempted to time the slapping sounds with various carols, the Christmas spirit of making the best of life and sharing love and generosity was accompanied by a broken shoe.
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