The First Christmas Pudding

“Ah” sighed my mother as she finished the last spoon of our Christmas pudding “ This reminds me of the time just before you were born, when I made our first Christmas pudding”

It was November 1956, in post-war Sheffield. Pea-souper smogs were still common. A young German wife, Rose, and her British army husband 'Lofty' were expecting their first baby, living under the shadow of the university in a small mid-terrace house. With hardly a penny to their name, it was a house full of fun and laughter. The younger sister, barely 18, but trained in child care, had come over from Germany to help and keep Rose company in a foreign land.

Christmas was but a month away and Rose had read in a woman's magazine about the famous British Christmas Pudding! Furthermore, this was going to be the first time with the in-laws. The decision was made – we'll make our own!

Following the recipe to the letter, the shopping was done and huge mounds of dried fruit, carrots, apples, suet, flour, treacle and spice went into the largest bowl that could be found in the kitchen. As the only coal fire in the house was in the living room, Rose and her sister set to work there. It looked as if it was going to be a big pudding, a very big pudding – in fact a gargantuan pudding!

The pudding was covered as it now had to rest for the night. The result of all this hard work was proudly displayed to Lofty when he came back home in the evening.

All the excitement and effort had the effect of inducing another kind of labour. Rose, nine months pregnant, and Lofty had to take an unexpected walk to the maternity hospital at 2 am, on a cold winter's night. After an exhausting 22 hour labour, I was born, a 9lb giant of a baby!

Rose's young sister was now increasingly worried, not only for her sister and the baby – but the pudding mixture had been left for longer than overnight. Would all their work be for naught? As her English was not up to understanding the recipe herself, she brought it along to the very first visit of the new mother and her baby. Together, they pored over the recipe, line by line. They discovered that they had overlooked a minor detail –

The recipe was for 22 puddings!

So poor Rose's sister had to return home, carefully form all the puddings in any cloths that she could find and steam them for the rest of the day.

The puddings were a triumphant success! Having been prepared so well in advance they became their appreciated presents for all the family, both in England and Germany – arriving by post, train and boat in time for Christmas 1956.

Faizan E Medina Mosque, Peterborough

There are two ways that you can get into Peterborough from the rail station. Yesterday I chose to take the footbridge leading into Queensgate. It was a glorious morning and as I looked to my left, I could see the dome and minaret of a mosque. So, after having attended the eco-cluster breakfast, I wound my way through Peterborough streets to find the building and have a look.

At street level this was not so easy to do, as the distinctive dome and minaret were out of sight. I finally gave in, and when a petite figure in a burka appeared in front of me, I asked for and received friendly directions.

I arrived at the Faizan E Medina Mosque. It appeared shut as I wandered round, until someone opened the door and asked what I was looking for. “I’d like to have a look at the mosque, I’ve never been in one before!”

Directed to the side door, I was let in. The entrance hall contained seating so that you could take off your shoes and stack them tidily the shoe rack before going further into the building. I was introduced to the Imam Hafiz Zia Rasul, who was unfazed at my appearance at the door and generously offered to show me around an answer my questions.

Hafiz took me into hall, the heart of the mosque. A large open space, covered by a carpet with distinctive markings in regular rows; each one functioning as a prayer mat. To the front, facing Mecca, was a decorated niche flanked by two podests from where the imams could address the congregation or lead the prayer. The niche or as is better known, Mihrab, was shaped like a large gateway and the inner curves were richly decorated in different Arabic scripts. Above us was the great canopy of the dome, again richly decorated in flowing Arabic script which Hafiz told me had been done by craftsman who had come all the way from Egypt.

In between on a floating floor above us was the separate area for the women and an observation gallery. We went upstairs and made our way to the gallery where a crowd of schoolchildren were clustered near the balcony. We heard their loud excited chatter in the background but now they were quieting down. As part of its outreach, the mosque regularly receives visitors from schools, so the children can see an aspect of life experienced by some of their friends.

Earlier, Hafiz had also shown me one of the copies of the Koran. As a publisher, the first fascinating aspect was that of course Arabic script is read from right to left. The second was the beautiful flowing Arabic script within. With the avoidance of any figurative representation, calligraphy is still common and beautiful art in the Arabic world.

In a mellow singing voice, Hafiz read out the first paragraphs at the beginning of the Koran. I asked about this way reading out. “Reading out the Koran is something we make as beautiful as possible” was the simple answer.

I’d heard the call to prayer, presumably from the minaret, which had also been broadcast within the mosque. But it was time for me to go and catch the train back to Cambridge. So after giving my thanks to Hafiz and his colleagues, I put my shoes back on and set off back in the direction of the station. Already, in small groups, people were coming out of the surrounding houses and going in the direction of the mosque for the second of the five prayer times during the day.