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  • Ah, a snapshot of life in an English village, as seen (what isn’t behind hedges, that is) by an American transplant. Yup, thatched cottages and all that. Houses with names. As many horses as cars some days, it seems. There is a very old church, a village green and a pub.

    Last night the carol singers came. We knew they were coming, and in fact, the announcement in the village bulletin asked that we let them know if we wouldn’t be home on the night they would come round. We were home and ready! What a treat. A knock on the door let us know they had arrived, so we could stand at the door and listen as they sang from the middle of our cul de sac (not sure what the English call this).

    In the view, under our wreath, we could see the dazzling light display our neighbours put on for us, and the lights of the singers’ torches (flashlights). Two traditional carols and a Merry Christmas. Where’s the mulled wine? Too bad I don’t like mince pies.
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