I'm not into Christmas anyway, but it's a particuarly hard time to be without my Mr Brigg. I was up at 4.30am, left the house at 8 and got down to the cemetery just before 10. It was strange to see the grass both green and thriving in December. I wasn't alone at the cemetery. A couple were there, and we passed the time of day. They asked whose grave I was tending and when I said my husband's, the woman replied "Oh right, it's Allan isn't it". I was pleased someone remembers you mister. The hatred I have for the scum down there sometimes threatens to destroy me, but now and agin there are wee chinks of humanity that push me back from the brink. If I won loads of money on the Euromillions, I'd buy up and then demolish as many of the houses down there as I could and wipe the name of Barrhill from the map. Or even better, rename it Brigghill! I left and stopped at Girvan beach and had a solo reflective time just watching the angry sea and feeling the wind whip up the sand lauch it against the car. Lovely. Then work beckons - Christmas Day in the workhouse...