Back now, to my journey home from Caerdydd. (I don't mean to be too Freudian, talkingabout trains and stations, comings and goings butI thought I'd fill you in.)

On thereturn journey I found myself sitting by a lady who had boarded the train at 8.15am in West Yorkshire. She was visiting her son who had been working in Haverfordwest since August.

Hefound it hard to settle and the people were unfriendly. I explainedI havelived here for over forty years and it takes time to understand the local patois. Shelived in a rural area in Yorkshire and everyone spoke to everyone.

Not wishing to be perceived as unfriendly, I told her about the Landsker line and how the natives fled the Norman barons and settled north of the county. Flemings and Norman hangers on usurped the south, accounting for the big divide.She nodded, but I don't think history was of muchhelp regarding her son's social life. I could have mentioned the Palace Cinema, the George's Restaurant, surfing, the Leisure Centre, butshe was longing for a cigarette.

A man sitting opposite joined the conversation and askedif I liked history. He'd always wanted to study it. He went through various books he'd read, talked about the 1906 landslide victory of theLiberals, what were my thoughts on Lloyd George as atwo-family man. (My, how train journeys exercise the brain). I replied gifted men have usually got a lot of excess energy, with which he seemed satisfied. Thenhe saidhe'd decided, over the last few minutes, to start an extra mural course in 'Hanes'. Da iawn', I said.

When he'd gone, I pointed across the Towy Estuary and explained where my mother lived, in an effort to entertain my companion. I pointed outthe new footbridge into Carmarthen from the station.

Each station we stopped at saw her craning her head towrds the luggage rack at the back. I askedif she was anxious about her pigskin travelling bag and she nodded, saying the Christmas cake was in it.I suggested she buy a strap and lock the bag to the rail next time.

One of my sons- in- law was travelling on a train when he had his bag stolen. He gave me a strap when I went to London. Fortunately, five minutes before we were due in, I had a premonition. It took me five minutes of struggle to unlock the strap, so now Itake the absolute minimum when I travel and keep the bag under my legs.

In Carmarthen, a woman in her sixties got on and sat across the aisle from me. It was not long before she was in conversation witha couple who had been silentuntil now. Soon, we knew that they were from California, but he was originally a Londoner. They were going to a wedding in Haverfordwest.

The lady herself gave them her marital history, saying she was against marriage, should anyone ask her, but she advised them, as they had been married thirty years, to stick with it.

She still drove, but not to Carmarthen anymore, though she had an unblemished licence. The Californian couple no longer drove, either, because they went everywhere on internal flights, even distances as short as fifty miles.

Their fellowpassenger was leaning across the table, in animated conversation. She recounted all the places she'd visited, all the times she had been searched, how she disliked flying, hated it, but had to put up with it, if she wanted to see the world. She did not know what was happening to the world, she volunteered, but it was changing, definitely, and she didn't like it.

Thepassenger beside me said that the woman opposite was chatty for Haverfordwest.

All was revealed when we stopped to get outat Haverfordwest.The talkativewoman saidshe was travelling on, to Milford Haven.

The Yorkshire passenger looked at me enquiringly. 'A different breed again', I said. 'Chatty. Definitely'.

Decided to give myself a little Christmas bauble. Well, Emma and Kate decided.

Precisely, somejewellery. Particularly, a crystal studded ring by S*****ski.

Normally, I'd need to be on more thannodding termswithan oligarch to have this, but it was not costing me anything because I had a reward voucher. Andsoit was that I found myself on the 9.29 am trainpulling out of Haverfordwest and heading for Cardiff last Wednesday.

I sat back, enjoying thescenery, rhimed frost on the grass andlone birds flapping about, likethe last survivors on earth.All was calm all was white, as inthe carol.

That was until wepicked up passengers in Carmarthen.First, someone's Auntie Vi could not find her seat, 15 A. This took five minutes of disruption and then the party began.

Four women and a bottle of wine, yo ho ho and away we go.They all had a glass (they'd forgotten about Auntie Vi by now, whose crocheted cap was bobbing up and down towards the front of the train), and cries of 'Penblwydd Hapus' rang out. (I mean 'rang').

The refreshment trolley arrived with sandwiches, crisps, chocolate and tea. One of the revellers gave it serious thought,before being told, 'Ti wedi bwyta cyn dod'.She'd eaten before getting on the train, apparently. Quite a sensible remark, I thought. Well nothing funny about it, not in a funny ha, ha, haway, anyway. However,hysterical laughter broke out and some of the 'party' were doubled up laughing. I tried saying 'Ti wedi bwyta cyn dod' quickly and then slowly in my mind, to see if I could figure out somethingha, ha, ha, about it, but I couldn't.

After a short silence, I heard someone say; 'It's cold today' and another voice answering, 'Yes, it is'.

This time the laughter wentoff the Richter scale and a drink was spilled, which was even more amusing.

The rest of the journeypassed witheruptions of laughter startling the new passengers who came on at Llanelli and all the myriad stops in between.

In Dinas Caerdydd,a cold wind blew across The Hayes. With the S******ski ring firmly in my mind, I decided it must be just as cold in Siberia. (I've never been to Russia, but the imagination is a powerful tool, so never mind.)

I had to go to the St. David's Shopping Centre. I wished I'd had a personal satnav to find my way aroundbut I found the shop I wanted, twoagreeable young men sellingpots of hand cream pointing it out to me andI chosemy ring,its colours sparkling like a peacock's tail feathers.

Outside, one of thechapels had puton a Christmas pageant. Two donkeys, a manger, and deacons dressed up as doethion ('Wise Men') and shepherds drew crowds of shoppers.Childrenpatted donkeys as straypricks of icy rain fell and thewind scoured people into the arcades. I rushed through myshopping before stopping for fish and chips and hot mulled wine in St Mary's Street. (This is the way to get your shopping done. Yah.)

On the train back I rang Peter to say what I'd had eaten and to pick me up atthe station.

We got into Haverfordwest (the train had started out in West Yorkshire) on time.

Peter greeted me with the words, 'I've got a fishcake in the oven for you'. I said nothing. I could feel the ring glittering in the box and I didn't mind if I had to eat fish and chips again.I'd had a good day out.

'Ac yr oedd yn y wlad hono bugeiliaid' - 'And there werein that land shepherds'.

And this is where the holiday season begins for me. Sheep andshepherds (tea towels slipping offtheir heads, the doll in the crib, kings in foil crownsand glittered capes, hay, straw, tinselledangels, a moth eaten donkey andcameras flashing wildly in the audience of grandparentsand parents).

Ffion and Maudie attend a Welsh medium school, the one Oliver and Harry went to. Their'Carolau Nadolig'take place in little chapels dotted around Pembrokeshire. We've been to Wolfscastle, (Castell Blaidd), Tabernacle, Bethesda (Augustus John's 'Bethseda' in 'Chiaroscuro') andEbenezer.

The caretakerswarm these vast Victorian buildingsto roastingly hottemperatures for the performance. Before I even step inside, the smell of carpet runners on the pews greets me. From my seat high up in thegallery,waiting for the performance to begin, I watch the dampness flaking off the pale blue (usually) plaster walls and admire the painted gold stars.

One year they performed 'Mam Maria' (Mamma Mia), my favourite and it always amazes me at the talent the children show at these performances.

On another scale, the Whitland Male Voice Choir sings in the grandeur of Picton Castle this weekend. St David's Cathedral and other churches will have their Carol services later on.

In Gowerton Grammar we sang 'Adeste Fideles' every Christmasimmediately after the school dinner but, as Emma says, once 'Glancleddau' sings 'Seren Wen uwch ben y byd, Babanannwylyn ei crud', the tears will start. Makes it worth all the palaver of going out on a cold, dark night.

'Deck the hall with boughs of holly'. Well,I'vecleared the decks,inside and out, not that I meant to do any outside clearing. It was just that I had to clean the shed.

It happened like this. I was in a 'Santa's Grotto' recently, where there was an arrayof sparkly decorations and I heard a man say to his companion, who was looking at the wreaths, 'Don't buy any more tat', which I thought a bit mean of him, it being the season of goodwill, sort of thing.

Ifelt quite smug because last year I bought awreath from this particular shop. It had velvety leaves, dark green underneath, but brighter where the fairy lights illuminated themand red, luscious berries. I'd wrapped the wreath up carefully after Christmas and put it on a shelf in the shed, where it waswaiting for me to bring it out of hibernation. It was ready tograce our walls for a few festive days again and I could even imaginea Christmas robinperchingon it and singing a'Winter Wonderland' tune.

With a skip in my step, I went to the shed to get the garland.The floor was scattered withshreds of polythene, like tatty confetti.I unwrapped the wreath and found the berries had been gnawed. My beautiful wreath had been destroyed by a vandal. We'd had an unwelcome visitor, who had eaten my prized decoration.

An hour or two later,a humane trap was in place. Next day, there was no sign of 'Miss Mouse' but thetrap was lined with leaves. (From this we realised it was a pregnant rodent).

But by the next morning,a little mouse witheyes glittering like anthracite, was poking her nose out of the entrance. Peter took the trap and occupant down to a nearby field and released her. Ungratefully, she tried to bite him. He stayed long enough to see her make her wayinto the bank.

A few days have passed and there are no more mousey goings on in the shed. Apparently, they can squeeze in through the tiniest of holes.

Since this happened, we have become experts on mice. Neighbours have told us to bait a trap with chocolate; mice muchprefer it to cheese.

I wondered if we should have made a nest in a cardboard box and let the mouse live there, rent-free, until the mice-kittens had been born. Peter looked at me for a few moments when I suggested this before saying: 'No'.

When it is cold and frosty, like now, mice look for warmth and shelter, but when it is a warm winetr, they breed profusely. We should have re-housed the mouse at least half a mile away, because they can find their way back.

I caught a mouse in a humane trap a few years ago, released it in the garden, where it turned around and ran straight back in. Ah, well, 'Good lodgings', as a neighbour said.

'Come and let us make good cheer, For Christmas comes but once a year'.

My thoughtsare turning to feasting and frivolity andmince pies in particular.

To elucidate, I'mthinking ofa mixture of dried fruits, spices and suet, encased in pastry.

I makepastrywitha mixture of butter andlard rubbed intoflour with cold finger-tips, all bound together with an egg yolk andcondensed milk, if the dish issweet. (Rest the pastryin the 'fridge for ten minutes or so before rolling out).

I used to makemincemeat from scratch, but now I buy a jar, stir in somegrated apple, a squeezed tangerineand a wine glass ofbrandy. This is to reduce the proportion of suet and to add an individual touch.I roll the pastry thinly,cutting it into rounds before arrangingeach circle in a deep patty tin, dolloping generous spoonfuls of mince into each little nest,lettingthe gooey sweetness brim over.

Idon't like a pastry lid; instead Iput a circle of marzipan over thepies,five minutes before they are ready to come out of the oven.Mince pies should be eatenhot, even if it means re-heating themlater. (Filo pastry is a good alternative to shortcrust).

People holdstrong viewsaboutpies. Kate and I prefer an Eccles cake to a mince pie, but Peter maintains that shop bought Eccles have too much fat in the pastry, which sticks to his palate. He's also noticed thatthe currants are small and gritty. ('Epicurius's own son was he', or a close relative. Goodness, haven'tI spoilt that man). Emma avoids the pies, if she can.

Originally, C16th or so, the 'mince' in the 'Chriseemas day in the morning' pies was meat, usually beef, mixed with chopped suet to add moistness. Cooks, being inventive creatures, began adding currants and some spices. (Spices were enormously prized and priced. They addedfragrance and taste to the pies and, contrary to popular belief, they were not there to cover the smell of rotting flesh).

Gradually, the pies changed their savoury nature and evolved into sweetmeats.The pie case was known as a coffin and this did notseem to diminishthe popularity of the pie in any way.

As a young wife, I used to read 'Good Housekeeping' avidly.The magazine suggested that after the main course and pudding onChristmas Day, you went on to mince pies and coffee. We tried it once, but found it hard going. (If we'd been cows,withfour compartments to our stomachs, it might have been ok).

I make very small mince pies, just a taste, because they are laden with calories. Then you can have some Christmas Log, (buche de Noel), some Christmas Cake, some sherry trifle with split almondsand glace cherries on the top, somemeringuey Pavlova, followed by violet chocolates and nougat with pecan nuts (my favourite sweet of all).

As they said in Florida, when we were there the week before Christmas, one year:Felice Navidad.

When I was a young child living in the Carmarthenshire countryside, we had a holly branch hanging from the ceiling, decorated with a few baubles from F.W. Woolworths as our'Coeden Nadolig'. (Although this is an old Welsh custom,I didn'tmuch care forit at the time.)

As I grew olderapine took the place of the holly tree but, in myteens, I thought fir treesvery 'infra dig' . In their steadI sprayed skeletal branches white, decorating them with a robin and woolly pom-poms.I was miffed when a neighbour saw my effortsand said, dubiously: 'Well, it saves money,I suppose'.

It was art, for goodness sake. Did she have no idea of the mirth, the magic, the merriment of the season? I wasn't listeningto 'Bah Humbug!'

The Puritansdisapproved of Christmas, but Charles 11 was not dubbed the 'Merry Monarch' for nothing. Lucy Walter's 'Black Eyed Boy' returned to the throne during the'Glorious Restoration' and we arenow allowed to bake a few mince pies and eat a capon or two, or a sausage and a few portions of pudding.

I wondered today how many hours I have spent working out Christmas ideas. More that that, why is it so important to me that our house should look like Lapland for a week or two of the year?

One year, I stackedshimmering Silver Birch logs at the side of the fire and interspersed them with fir cones.

'Woman and Home' magazineshowed how to make a Mexican village (cardboard boxes, covered with white shelf paper, and placed on even larger boxes and stuck down firmly). I made one for Emma and Kate. 'Why Mexican?'Peter asked quite reasonably. 'Christmas all over the world,' was my answer.

I've hadtables laid with white damask cloths, gold lame runners, cut glass, crystal, bowls of fruit with pineapples -(exotic in Fishguard in 1960 and providing anappropriate oriental touch, I thought).

Having been a teacher, I've had more than my fair share of Christmas decorations, plays, Carol Concerts, pantomimesand, as my mother said today: 'You've had a lot of staff Christmas dinners and Christmas dinners in schooland at home'.So yes, I've had more than my share of stuffing, but over the last few years, we've simplified.

No more boiling puddings wrapped in muslin a la 'The Christmas Carol' for me. And I'm not chopping fruit and nuts and beating brown sugar and butter because this year, it's all coming ready prepared. Yes, the chicken in a foil container, the stuffing in a foil container, thepeeled sprouts, thepudding, the brandy cream and the mince pies.

We'll cut a small tree from the garden and hang the lights up soon. You see, I like the preparations for Christmasmore than the day itself, so I'll be enjoying every moment of this very special seasonduring the coming weeks.

I hate looking at a plain surface, bare of everything. I'm not a minimalist (natureabhors a vacuum, as you will be aware) and was never meant to be -(good Lord, you should see the things I stack away, the girls' dummies, Harry and Oliver's dummies, the Christmas, Easter, Birthdayand Mother's Day cards the girls crayoned, and even Harry and Oliver's too.

All these thingsare stored ina thick box folder, to ensure their safety. The first blue kid baby shoes, summer dresses, slippers, satchels, Harry and Oliver's 'Rompers' and didn't they romp, have a cupboard of their own. Can't think why I haven't won the Turner Prize for art, considering all the flotsam and jetsam of family life that I have netted.

But, today was a little different. Sleet, wind and rain meantwe did not leave the house. In some twisted form of logicand, asI am supposed to be cracking on with a novel, I decided to tidy the kitchen.

I can't think in the day and Ionce heard of someone who was so excited to get a book contract thather mind went blank and she suffered literary paralysis. To prevent thathappening I decidedon a spot of displacement activity.

So, it was yakka, yakka, yakka all day.Away with the Bambi salt and pepper set thatI thought was a typical example of Post Modernist Irony, awaywith theroyal blue velvet hanging with 'Mother' in silver sequins from Malta which a friend gave me. (OK, I am a mother, but why did she thinkI'd like that?)

I've heard about Archimedes' Principle of displacement but, let me tell you, practically it just doesn't work. No way. Take this as an example: (forget about water now, just follow me) Ihave six things in a cupboard. I throw away the piri piri peppers (don't want Peter having heartburn), an empty Vitamin C container (musthave thoughtit would come in handy for something, 'poverty mentality' Kate says and she couldbe right) and the almost empty tin of syrup with the lion lying down with the bees buzzing around. So, that should leave us with three items to put back on the washed shelf. Three items less to put back, that is, but 'dyna peth od', that's the funny thing, it is difficult to put a lesser number of things back in. Try it. Empty half the contents of a drawer into a bin and you think you'll have loads of room, but my way, you'll still have to stuff them back in.

Tell you what. My reasoning was perfectly correct. After a few hours 'cleaning' it was a relief to get back on the computer. What's the saying? 'The cobbler should stick to his last' and so say I.

So, it was back to the 'stream of consciousness' and the 'icky moo cow' coming down the road, or whatever. Nos Da pawb. I don't know why I'm feeling so tired tonight.