ding dong merrily on 'igh

On Saturday Christmas had started with a swing down in Hackney Central. With my best friend Ms Rational Self-Determinism I went to a craft fair in Sutton House, our local National Trust property dating (in parts) from Tudor times, full of oak panelling, wide old floorboards and homemade jewellery stands. (Legend has it that the top floor is haunted by a little dog. I've never seen it; nor have Les Petites Baroques, who have of course had more school trips to Sutton house than I've had hot dinners (in Sutton House, I mean; they do a slap-up roast there for £6 on a Sunday).)

Moving on from there, mercifully without any new jewellery, we couldn't resist the Narrow Way. Partly this was because Ms R S-D needed to pick up her boots from the menders; partly it was because, well, it's there. And let me tell you it is now officially Christmas.

The pound shop was full of both things that cost a pound and people, who were themselves bursting with armfuls of foil decorations. Ms R S-D was particularly struck by a candle of which the outer bit was imitation leather - very dark brown, with pocks. "The ex Mr R S-D might like this," she said. "I haven't even got him a birthday present yet." She went on, "I can really see this in his home," turning it in her hand to display the extreme waxiness of the pocked layer.

"He might like it better if it had a label on it saying HEAL'S," I said.

She looks at me for a slow minute, and then goes, "I could make one." Looks at me again and just puts the candle back. So that was done, then.

Or did she buy it? I stopped paying attention. Hal, if you're reading this, it's still a mystery, honey!

Then, stomachs still warm from the mulled wine we'd bought from the elderly volunteers in the Victorian-herb-filled kitchen, we had lunch in the best that the Narrow Way can offer: Hackney MacDonalds. Ohh, I've missed that place. Fortunately this time there was no racist abuse going on, and the manager did an excellent job of managing the queues. It was crowded like the bar at a rock gig.

But the thing I loved the best about the Narrow Way this Saturday was the saxophonist. He was a 30-something black guy with short dreads, a black leather cap, shiny black boots ("look, he's wearing his Santa boots!") and an all-black outfit. He was practically impossible to see in the crowd but the whole place was full of his music: "Ding Dong Merrily on High," he played, over and over. But it was a work in progress: every time he got to the "Glo-o-o-o-o-o-o-ria" bit the saxophone faltered beneath his fingers and the whole thing dropped an octave and then another, like a boy whose voice is breaking, before suddenly squeaking back up to the original register, and well, in short, it was fab. I didn't laugh out loud till the third or fourth time I heard it happen and he just stopped playing, with an exclamation, held the sax away from him and just looked at it. Shrugged, and started playing again.

I'd rather that guy than any piped carol music any day! Merry Advent.