Hubby and I are hoping to go into the Abbey on the way back from MOH on Christmas Day to light candles for our Dads.
We can leave Maggie in the car if there’s a service going on, and if so, we might well stay to join in.
It’s been a long time since I attended a Carol Service, though in some High Streets there are bands playing and passers-by join in.
I love to sing. Not that I’ve got that good a voice, but I love the old melodies of Christmas favourites, and can’t quite get my head around the new tunes for familiar lyrics.
We had very few carol singers when we were in any of our houses, certainly none at all in Lincolnshire, but if we had a knock on the door, we would sing along too and drop a few coins in the box as they sang by lantern light.
As a child, it was not unusual for a group of us to go carol singing the week before Christmas. Our ages would range from 6 to 16, and we’d be wrapped up snug and warm in woolly hats, coats and gloves, and would sing our hearts out for a few bob.
I miss the old traditions.
A town at night is not as safe as when I was a child, and parents or older siblings are either too tired or have something better to do than traipse along the road on a cold night warbling by torchlight.
The Salvation Army bands are also few and far between now, though in some supermarket foyers there will be a handful of musicians belting out Once in Royal David’s City, Silent Night, and O Come All Ye Faithful, just as I remember them all those years ago.