Warm performances to melt a cold winter's day.

We wake to a very cold morning, freezing fog clings to the ground and an icy draft chills my ankles, as Norman bravely troops into the garden to perform his ablutions before breakfast, the usual full English. After which, I read the Guardian over coffee until it is time to shower and dress for Louis' Nativity play at Saint Mary's Primary School. The digital display on the Chrysler reads minus four degrees centigrade, as I drive into Beverley, managing to park handily on Manor Road, a few yards from the school. Shepherds are making their way into the assembly hall as I arrive, amongst them Louis, who tells his friends, "that's my grandad", which they all know anyway as they see me at least twice each week. The assembly hall is packed with Mum's, Dad's, Nana's and Grandad's, as well as assorted shepherds, angels, wise men, and Joseph and Mary. The show opens with a song and then flows without a hitch for forty minutes, each class taking the stage and doing their bit, when Louis' turn comes he commands the audience and proclaims the good news, in a strong, clear voice, to the back of the hall. A born thespian, with no trace of nerves, other than being always in motion which makes his photographs a little blurred. I am a sucker for this kind of thing and my eyes fill with tears several times during the performance. I was not alone, the vicar of Saint Mary's, a lovely woman, sitting in front of me, shared the same problem. After the show Louis also starts to cry, so I go over and give him a cuddle, which only serves to make him worse, Mrs. Wildbore, his teacher, tells me that he is crying because he doesn't want me to go. He is consoled eventually and agrees that I have to take Norman, Teddy and Dolly for their walk. By the time I return home to collect Normy and then the terriers, a bright winter sun has burned back the freezing fog and the woods and common are a sparkling winter wonderland, the heavy frost coating the trees and grass as effectively as a fall of snow. Whilst it is cold, there is little or no wind, so it is a perfect day for walking and so we roam happily for a couple of hours, the highlight being Burton Bushes again. Even at high noon, I cast a long shadow, as we enter, through the gate on the southwest corner. The colours of the trees and fallen oak leaves are vivid where the sun has thawed away the frost and sparkling like diamonds in the shade. The muddy path frozen into iron ridges, created by the boots of previous walkers, I could walk through woodlands like these for days on end. There is a forest in southern Poland, that goes on for hundreds of miles, one day perhaps. Or memories of Dersu Uzala, in Siberia, now there is a thought! We arrive back in Tickton at two o'clock and make a chicken Paella for lunch, using a filet that I removed from the freezer and left to defrost. After lunch, I rest for an hour but am roused by Norman, demanding dinner at four thirty, despite having a bowl of rice and chicken with me. I have to leave him in an hour anyway, in order to take Felicity, Hahne and a visiting friend to the ballet in Hull, so give in and open a tin for him and then frog march him round the village until he produces treasure. He tries the old circle back routine, but I am not to be dissuaded from my purpose and he duly performs his duty, by the post office, which is handy as there is a bin outside. To show there are no hard feelings, he plays "praise and pat", with me as we return home down Green Lane. The ladies are duly collected from a freezing cold Beverley at six and then driven by a cunning route that avoids the traffic, (Thursday is late night Xmas Shopping in Hull), to the Odeon multiplex, next to the ice arena. As we enter the complex, a chap on the way out, says he has demanded his money back as his theatre had no heating! Fortunately, screen six, which is showing the telecast from Covent Garden, is snug and warm and the show starts on time at a quarter past seven. The Nutcracker is the ultimate, Chocolate Box, Ballet, but exquisitely, produced, choreographed and danced. Sometimes, "Chocolate Box", is just what you need, especially at Xmas. Anyway, we all enjoyed it, especially as "The Great Dane", conjured up a bottle of wine, four glasses and some biscuits, during the interval. On our way home, Hahne's friend, who hails originally from Northern Ireland, is intrigued when I inform her that Ballet was invented in Belfast. She claims not to know this and falls for the punch line, "That's why there is always a Paddy Dewar, in every ballet!" I drop the ladies off around half past ten, and then drive home, to a warm welcome from Norman and share a little of my supper, a cheese sandwich, before we go to bed, around eleven thirty. My last thoughts of the day contrasting the wonder and generosity of creative collaboration, be it a Nativity or a World Class Ballet.