We hope you’ve been enjoying our 12 Days of Christmas, and all the bargains So far, our 12 Days of Christmas ebook promo has gifted you bargain copies of books from Andy Remic, Justin Gustainis, Joseph D’Lacey and Matthew Hughes, Freya Robertson and Anna Kashina, Michael Boatman, Danielle L. Jensen, and Jay Posey. You can still get these titles at the bargain price by following the instructions below.
Here’s how to take advantage of our £1 seasonal special offer:1. Visit the Robot Trading Company at www.robottradingcompany.com2. Add the book(s) you’d like to buy to your shopping basket3. Add the magic word ‘mincepie’ to the ‘coupon/voucher’ box4. Click the ‘update basket’ button and the discount will be applied
For today’s festive bonus, here’s a special memory from Marianne:
Christmas in the Australian Wheatbelt circa 1970’s
My mother loved to dance. Any opportunity, but particularly on holidays. Two weeks before Christmas she’d begin laying out wrapping paper and gifts and sticky tape and tinsel on the large bed in the spare room (my brother’s old room). It was the coolest room in the house, painted soft green, and with the benefit of high ceilings because summer was a blistering, unforgiving time in our part of the world.
Rose would click on the fan, crank up the record player (Bing or Dean and, occasionally, Frank), and dance around that room while playing the delicate game of fit the present to the person.
My contribution was to lie in the centre of the huge old King-sized bed, gifts scattered around me, and daydream. I still remember the flowery scent of Avon soaps, perfumes, and bubble baths – for indeed Avon did come to call in our little country town; the ribbon-festooned bottles of wine and odd naughty Irish liqueur; the mouth-watering biscuits in silvery pressed-tin boxes, the soft chiffon fripperies, satin pillowcases, and packets of salty celebration mixed nuts: pretzels and smoked almonds. Nothing expensive but each item as luxurious and exotic to me as Christmas itself. Each one of them, a mysterious tale.
She would sing, too, while she worked, in a deep, rich voice that never changed octave but brimmed full of life and fun. I’d turn my face into the pillows as her singing trailed off and she began to talk about the people she was giving presents to–recounting their lives and losses in short bursts of gratefulness and love.
Then dad would arrive and stamp dust off his boots outside the window, calling her to have a cup of tea. Hearing his voice, her face would light and I would feel…perfect.