Christmas Day working in the House

The portions were far, far too large. The five or six in the kitchen had cooked the turkeys and all that went with them. The tables had been laid. The 30 or so diners were fitted to the tables. Once the starter had been consumed, the plates were delivered to the tables, each plate carrying what could be described as a mountain of food. At the servery, I watched the foundation of vegetables being passed so that the layers of turkey could be laid upon the foundation. Too much, too much

And so it was. A diner who ate half the contents of the plate would have taken sufficient for the rest of the day. I collected plate after plate on which half the contents remained. It was common for the diners to apologise: 'I'm sorry, but I just couldn't eat it all'. Back to the kitchen where the remains were deposited in a bin. A shame.

It could have been different. The resident are served three meals a day. Whilst any one of the others, the non-residents, may be hungry, none is starving. Accordingly, it would have been seemly to have reduced the portions by half, at least. A diner can always ask for more. None did, by the way. The working assumption seemed to be that the Christmas lunch is to be much bigger than the day-to-day one.

Well, the diners contradicted that assumption. It was reasonable to assume, it seemed to me, that there would be a special quality to the meal. And so there was. There were clean, white tablecloths. There were crackers on the table. Turkey with all the trimmings was the main ingredient of the meal. It was a special occasion; it was a special meal. And I sense that the providers, those worthy volunteers in the kitchen, would have complemented those surrounding features if they had supplied the smaller portions. Instead, they emphasised quantity. There was a sense, it seemed to me, of 'Get outside that', and the diners didn't.

The elderly man who came late to the lunch was one who cleared his plate. He sat quietly. I opened a conversation. He had been brought from Crawley (about a mile or two). Where he going? Not yet settled. It could be Worth Abbey. Or it could be Turners Hill, close to the abbey, where there was a warm, dry place he could sleep in. He was waiting for a sleeping bag. I mentioned East Grinstead. If I could take him there, he said, he could sleep in the (RC) church hall. In review though, he reckoned that he should go to Crawley, towards Gatwick, as he wanted to get to Redhill. I drove him to Redhill where I left him, in the rain, at the bus station. He'd wait there and then make contact with the local (RC) priest, who would let him sleep in the hall.

We said 'Hello' to each other, the man with the flushed face of a drinker and I. He had been a SSAFA client earlier in the year. Then, he and his partner had been living in a privately-rented flat. Both were drinking. Rent arrears had been cleared. Utility bills had been paid. Later in the year, the flat was occupied by others. The two had left without trace. We met some weeks ago in Open House. An arrangement to meet at a local cafe was unrealised. Now he had the looks of a man who is in the (early) process of being eroded by drink. However, he said he had stopped. I gave him my mobile number. He is to telephone me next Monday.

Before lunch, I had collected two non-residents from their flats in Crawley; when the day-centre close, I returned them. There was time for a half-hour visit. Then, home. In for the remainder of the evening. Books and a fire. (Alas, I must put an axe to the logs tomorrow. They're too big.)