Christmas at One, The Old Brewery

We spent last Christmas with Tessa, at One, The Old Brewery - I welcomed the chance to explore this former late Victorian pub - Richard said that it had been called The Nelson - now it was a shared house, with a louche, care free, ambience - 

The boiler had stopped working a few days before we arrived - we pulled on thick oily jumpers and padded trousers to keep warm - the tip of my nose was pinched and icy when I woke up on Christmas Day - I shaved with cold water, not wanting to look like a grizzled oldster - 

A pool table had been set up in the old beer cellars - you could see the ramps used to roll down the barrels - you could still smell the scent of beer in the chill air - I thought of all of the potent ales, porters and stouts that had been stored here - ghosts drifted up the wrought iron spiral staircase - 

A tall Christmas tree blazed with blue and white tinsel in what had been one of the bars - there were comfortable sofas for lolling - we got the boiler working - one of the landlord's mates tinkered with it as gingerly as though it was a ticking bomb - we had a jolly time - boozing in moderation and telling stories - 

Richard was there - so was Charlie - Charlie plays electric guitar - his new band is called Borderline Pornography - we sipped his formidable vodka - 

Richard has written some spare, beautiful, poetry - I especially liked the  poem about Dar es Salaam - I could hear in, my head, the brass fans whirring above his head in a sultry room - 

Tessa smiled her brilliant smile - Sophie spoke her wise words - Anne, as always, was fearless and kind -  

On Christmas Day we opened our presents - we ate a feast of chicken and roast potatoes fit for a gang of tipsy bravos - 

I thought of the closing pages of A Christmas Carol - I wanted to hear bells ring out over the roof tops of Southsea - I wanted my mum and dad to be young again -