GETTING INTO THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT

The Christmas cake has been made and, after it's iced, nobody will notice that it's rather darker than it should be. Once again, the combined efforts of Delia (the recipe) and myself (the hard graft) have been thwarted by our rather useless Italian oven. With its smart brass fittings and matte finish, it looks good - but then so do many Italian things. The problem is that the thermostat doesn't work properly and the temperature goes up and down like a bride's nightie.

At least my homemade mincemeat looks and tastes rather fabulous (and I've had to taste it a few times to make sure). And so it should, with that much brandy and spiced rum in it. I even bought a small piece of festive fabric from a material shop in Manacor so that I could make kitsch little covers for the jar lids. Sorry . . . were you just dazzled by the sun reflecting off my halo?

Actually, cake and mincemeat aside, I've been struggling to feel festive. Several times I've sat down to write the Christmas cards and given up. It's because it's been a bit of a rough fortnight. We've both had colds and been hacking away like two people who chain-smoke Ducados (not an attractive sound). And Smokey, our Maine Coon cat, has been really poorly. He'd been having tests to determine why he was losing weight (despite a healthy appetite) when he too was laid low by a filthy cold. In the past fortnight we've been to the vet's nine times, during which he's had an ultrasound scan, various blood tests, some scarily expensive injections, and examinations. None of the visits has been less than an hour. At home, we've had to feed him hourly by syringe - he went completely off his food once the cold started - and give him various pills at different times of day. No wonder I'm behind with the ironing. Anyway, he's almost back to normal now and his weight loss problem has been solved.

So it was good to get out and visit Palma yesterday, for the 10th Ecumenical Christmas Carol Service in the city's beautiful cathedral. On Friday, the Christmas lights in the city had been officially switched on, so it was hard not to feel a frisson of Christmas spirit as we made our way through the streets. It was our fifth visit to this annual service, and I challenge anyone not to feel festive after singing a few carols, listening to the cathedral choir - Els Vermells de la Seu - and the talented little cuties in the Centre Stage Junior Chorus. Apart from the fact that some of the verses of traditional carols are sung in castellano or mallorquín (there seemed to be more words than available tune in some cases), and the inclusion of the Sibil-la, it has a rather British feel.

The Sibil-la is a chant dating back to the 10th century, traditionally sung before or during Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve - and Mallorca is now the only place where it's performed. The story of Judgement Day, it's sung unaccompanied by a lone chorister clad in oriental robes and holding aloft a rather heavy-looking sword. Between each verse there's a dramatic burst of music from the cathedral's magnificent organ. I'd sum it all up as hauntingly beautiful . . . and a bit long (plenty of time to reflect on one's own misdemeanours, I suppose).

For one small person, the service proved to be a bit too much. Just as the opening bars of "A Holly Jolly Christmas" were being played on the piano, an indignant voice (aged around three) piped up from a nearby pew: "Not another one!" The little boy's parents' faces were as red as the Centre Stage Juniors' sweaters, but the rest of us who heard it enjoyed a muffled giggle behind our order of service sheets.

I felt so festive when we arrived home, I had to start writing my Christmas cards - and have another spoonful of mincemeat. I think it's going to be fine . . .