Mulled Wine followed by Southern Comfort followed by several Black Russians does not a good pre-Church mixture make.

It does, however, make for a good night out talking.

But back to the church thing.

Last night was the traditional Midnight Mass (which in previous years has both enchanted and disappointed me in equal measures… and weirdly I have never blogged about it).  I think I expect too much – it always starts off quite well, friendly face hands you a service sheet and you sit in a warmed church, candlelight flickering lightly as the choir gathers at the back of church ready to sing something beautiful before they walk through church to something everyone knows (this year it was Hark, the Herald Angels Sing) and then there is a bit of a prayer and it’s usually shortly after that the magic goes and my head starts to hurt.

Someone switched all the lights on.  I don’t like it bright anyway but going from candlelight to far too many bulbs always feels a litle to me like that moment in Bond films when the bad guy turns the light on him and says, in a bad accent, something along the lines of ‘I expect you to not talk, but quip a little and then escape in a totally obvious way while I laugh maniacally’

Now, I know I have become a ‘bad church goer’.  I go, at most, 5 times a year.  I have not really felt like church is the place to get my faith on (yes, I am making bad white girl gangster signs right now – hip hop hooray) as it mostly just annoy me with little petty things. 

I mean, for Pete’s sake, the Lord’s Prayer was SUNG with the wrong words (I say wrong as I feel it should be trespasses and not sins… but that’s just me.)

This year the choir was magnificent.  I was worse than usual.  Although the alcohol from my pre-church meeting with friend (which went splendidly) had lubricated and opened up my hacking death cough throat, but still everytime I opened my mouth to sing I sounded like a tuneless version of what I imagine The Nails Down a Chalkboard Symphony (also known as that X-Factor abomination) will sound like.  And, ooo, it hurt!  Singing carols is for me almost as pleasurable as having a good ol’ patriotic sing along with the Last Night of the Proms.  This year not so much.  Damn.

And then there was a moment of pure hell for me.

At a totally random moment in the service a woman I had never seen before got up and started to sing O Holy Night.  My joint first  favourite carol (along with Carol of the Bells).  She may have hit all the right notes, but she hit all the ones in between as well, and ran round the melody like she was being chased by a pack of hungry wolves.  It felt cold and emotionless.  I didn’t think it was possible to sing that particular carol with no emotion.  She succeeded, and it totally ruined what little Christmas joy I had managed to collect up.  It was showboating, and didn’t feel like it was for any reason other than a vocal exercise.

It did one thing though.  It has finally given me the push I needed to get my own vocal issues sorted.  It’s going to be one of my New Year’s resolutions. 

Anyway, we are going out in a few minutes for Christmas dinner and I really have to say: