Feather Dusters and Boiling Puddings.

 Monday 22nd September 2025

When Eric came in for breakfast with Dad this morning, he tried winding me up straight away. He said he was “awfully sorry” about getting the inside of my tractor cab filthy with cow muck and mud. Honestly, he must think I was born yesterday if he thought I hadn’t checked since they’d had it on Friday! The first thing I did on Saturday morning was wander up the yard to see what they’d been doing with the seed drill and to inspect my tractor. They’d looked after it very well, actually. I’m convinced Dad even took his boots off, because the cab carpet was spotless.

“You need to get it cleaned then, Eric,” I told him.

He just laughed and said he’d get right on it — which I doubt very much even if they had messed it up!

After breakfast, Mum and I set about the usual Monday house-cleaning. The new feather duster made its grand debut, although I didn’t get a chance to try it — Mum was far too busy playing with her new toy, like she’d been waiting her whole life for the excuse. My job, apart from the usual vacuuming, was to keep an eye on the Christmas puddings we made on Saturday. They had to boil for hours — six or seven depending on the size — with the pans topped up constantly with water so they didn’t burn. It felt like half the day was spent carrying the kettle back and forth.

Eric came in at lunchtime and immediately started sniffing the air. “Smells like burning in here!” he said, eyes twinkling. “Better let me have that burnt pudding, it would be a shame to see it go to waste.” Mum told him to clear off and get on with his lunch before I ended up throwing a pudding at him.

I finished Christmas pudding.

Five Christmas puddings. We are going to sample the one in the container before Christmas.

Once the puddings were finally cooling, Mum decided we might as well get the Christmas cake mixture underway. That meant a trip out for whiskey (since Dad had drunk the last drop!) and a few other odds and ends. I teased Mum that Dad would have to make do with licking the cake tin, same as the pudding bowl. She just gave me that dry little smile of hers and told me to mind my tongue as he doesn't need any encouragement from me.

Christmas cake mixture.

Speaking of tongues — mine is still sore. I couldn’t resist sneaking a piece of pudding that broke off when we tipped one of the bowls out. It was still red hot, and I managed to burn myself before I could taste much of anything. Mum laughed and said it served me right. She’s probably right, but at least she’s put a small pudding aside for us to try before Christmas. I can’t wait for that — provided I don’t scorch my tongue off first. I've never had a homemade Christmas pudding before.