Holly

We walked down the frozen field, the sky birthday blue, to a holly bush near a stile, sheep gathering on the ridge almost yellow in the angled light. Each with a pair of secateurs, we cut sprigs of holly heavy with red berries in great clusters, filled our two supermarket bags. Glad, we walked up the next field, singing deck the halls and talking about being jolly, jollity, jollification...

And on the way back over the cobbles near Mitchell Brothers Mill, having taken L's word that it really wasn't slippery, my feet suddenly slid away from under me, and somehow, through sheer instinct and the miracle of semicircular canals, and a measure of luck, I managed to stay upright, walking on laughing, my legs shaking, my stomach newly turned.