Musings on the Mundane

‘Perhaps I should go to a paediatrician and ask about getting some dentures,’ I tell the Nearly-Beloved as I hobble over to the sofa on my bad ankle. Thankfully, being of a similar age to me, his brain understands how mine is currently malfunctioning. He nods encouragingly. ‘Podiatrist? Orthotics? Good idea.’

At times this inability to find the right words frustrates me and has me shunning the evening pub quiz for an online dementia test. I always panic when I find myself walking into a room, wondering why on earth I am there. Then I remember I am searching for the pair of glasses that are currently perched on top of my head. Is this a slow slide into senility or simply a mother’s headspace overflowing with surplus information about the whereabouts and activities of her offspring? It doesn’t help that the Nearly-Beloved uses me as his own Google Calendar, casually asking whether he’s due a dental check-up or when his sister’s birthday is. And also, my brain is having to deal with a reboot. During lockdown its bandwidth contracted. After all, nothing happened so there was nothing to forget!

But now, life is back to near normal and standard ‘brain-band’ is no longer adequate. I need a fibre optic connection to help my poor overactive mind cope with all the extra information.  It tries its best, filing words together that belong in the same category or sound similar.  But sometimes they come out all wrong.  Grunting Teen is not impressed when I call him by every other family member’s name bar his own. Nor can he understand that his Nana’s ‘Cadillac operation’ refers to her eyesight not her driving ability.

He rolls his eyes when we forget who the actor is in the film we’re watching, totally unaware that his casual question leads to a night of broken sleep, counting leading men rather than sheep.  But when the Nearly-Beloved sits bolt upright at 4am shouting ‘Andy Garcia’, our sense of satisfaction triumphs over our insomnia. And now we need to triumph over age-related memory loss.

Is it just coincidence or have the children ganged up on us oldies to make sure we ‘use it so we don’t lose it’? Suddenly the family WhatsApp has us subscribing to Wordle, the latest online word puzzle taking the nation by storm. Can we all unpick the daily brainteaser in our allotted maximum six moves? For once the parents have the advantage – they know that certain consonants and vowels are more common in the English language and they take their time to plan their moves. No surprise then that our digital native adolescent, with his short attention span, is the first to opt out. Spelling and patience were never his strong points.

Instead, he challenges me to download an app to recognise the flags of all 195 countries in the world. It’s an impossible task. Whilst he, with his superspeed reactions and heightened visual-spatial skills, is already on level 9 of the game, I am still struggling at the first stage. How many variations of coloured stripes can there be? Look at it one way and it’s Ireland, yet reverse the order and you’ve got the Ivory Coast! Horizontal stripes can mean currywurst and beer will be on the menu. But make them vertical and you’ll be eating your ‘Moules et frites’ with mayonnaise. Then depending on whether the flag has got a sun or stars in the middle means you’re either in Argentina or Honduras. And don’t get me started on all those confusing crescent moons!

Gradually though the brain training pays off. I now have no time for conversations or watching films. My glasses no longer get misplaced. They are permanently glued to my nose as I peer at the screen, uncovering the word of the day and unfurling the flags of the world. It’s certainly more entertaining than going down the bakery for my pork chips. So, what if I can’t speak in coherent sentences? At least the old grey matter can solve a Wordle puzzle in three moves and differentiate between the dragons of Bhutan and Wales!

When it comes down to it, life is just a game of Top Trumps. But not the fun Dinosaur version I used to play with Grunting Teen in the days when he actually enjoyed mummy’s company. Then, an affable Stegosaurus with a small brain had no chance against a T-Rex with a high score for intelligence and a killer rating of 9.

Now instead I play Ailments Top Trumps with the Nearly-Beloved for sympathy points. Does his bad knee out-trump my dodgy Achilles? No. But, throw in his tennis elbow and he’s suddenly the overall winner. It’s my least favourite edition but sadly every few months it’s the cards we are dealt. Perhaps we should give up exercising? After all, in the Health Top Trumps, whilst smoking and binge-drinking are obviously low-value items, the danger factor in a daily brisk walk is surprisingly far less than a weekly long-distance run.

But to be number one in the Grandparents Top Trump we have to forget our sporting injuries and rise to the occasion. Nemesis Nana is already on a winning streak, piling up the points with her bootie and bonnet knitting. As for Guerrilla Grandad, he’s storming ahead with his sneaky DIY ‘I’ll unblock the sink for you and take a look at the electrics whilst I’m here’ tactics. But I reckon we can beat them hands down with a spot of unsolicited babysitting.

Little Angel is not so sure. Bath time sees our Childcare Top Trumps plummet to a record low ranking. Grammy’s ankle can’t cope with a baby and the stairs. Poppa can’t bend down to reach the tub. And Gentle Body Wash, not old-fashioned soap, turns out to have the best stat for slippiness. The upside is that Little Angel’s ‘Swim Babies’ class has really paid off – our granddaughter is a natural at holding her breath underwater.

Luckily, she’s not yet at the talking stage so this incident doesn’t make it into the Scandals Top Trumps, which is a very popular category at the moment. Rule-breaking events are racking up record wins. ‘Eye test at Barnard Castle’ looked as if it might do well with an impressive distance level of 263 miles. But despite a less-than-two-metre gap, ‘Canoodling in the Cabinet’ pipped it at the post because of its quicker resignation time. And whilst ‘Wallpapergate’ and ‘Partygate’ were both on equal points for location, a Lulu Lytle makeover meant that the £58,000 refurbishment was more expensive than sixteen ‘work meetings.’

As for Bad News Top Trumps, this is a pack we could all do without. I mean whether World War III earns more destruction points than Global Warming is largely irrelevant. Both are man-made and both are as bad news as you can get. And, when it’s a question of heating hikes versus food price rises, they are both evenly matched in national depression rates.

So, to counteract any family unfriendly versions, I’ve decided to play Silver Lining Top Trumps. Here, a Paleo, raw fruit and veg diet means you are not only up with the latest food fads but you also don’t have to use gas or electricity to cook any meals.  And let’s start a new trend in ‘layers’ so you can gain points for looking fashionable in thermal undies, seven jumpers and a sleeping bag. That way there will be no heating bills and maybe the chance for Ozone to make a come-back. In this new Utopian game, honesty beats spin doctoring, social care trumps corporate profit and kindness is the number one top scorer.

I apologise for being ‘monthist’. But that 70’s song classic says it all – ‘January, sick and tired. You’ve been hanging on me.’  I mean, let’s face it, January is a bit of a ‘meh’ month, which goes on forever.

There’s nothing to look forward to unless you are a teetotal vegan who enjoys living on a shoestring until payday on the 98thof the month. Working days seem interminable. The weather is intolerable. And your credit card bill is inexcusable. It makes you question whether you really got your money’s worth out of the festive season and means ‘home entertainment’ is January’s buzz word.

In essence, for me, January is a ‘holding period’, where time stands still. Once the decorations come down, all household duties are suspended. After all, no one’s coming to visit in this Groundhog Day of a month. Besides, that’s the purpose of a ‘spring’ clean, isn’t it? So, cooking revolves around what’s left in the freezer. There are no hearty soups. Just gastronomic shocks when the Bolognese sauce turns out to be a defrosted vindaloo. And bad luck if you have a birthday in January – no one wants to go out. No party for you. You’ll have to make do with cake and wine at a work meeting. You see, this is a month that lacks leadership, although it promised so much. A new year. A new start. A new lie!

It turns out that the countless days of January reveal countless secrets. Illusions of the year gone by are shattered when you realise that all is not what it seemed. Some, too busy breaking rules and living it up, may have forgotten last year’s tribulations. But for others Omicron is still having an impact on their daily life. So, is freedom this year’s reality or simply a spin doctor’s wishful thinking? In the spirit of change, though, January has drawn a line under Covid. It’s swept it under the carpet, cheering us up instead with the threat of World War 3.

It’s claimed that January heralds the start of lighter nights. But, in reality, one endless dark day rolls into another. Post-pandemic liberation might beckon, but who can be bothered to make the effort? Far easier to save on the laundry, slip into those ever-tightening, wear-all-month jogging bottoms and veg out in front of the TV.

Traditionally it’s the time for New Year’s resolutions. But honestly, what’s the point? Those January gym bunnies rarely make it past the second week. And those that do, spend more time huddling together in the sauna than working out with the weights. And why make sacrifices if you are the only one doing it?

As the month drags on, dragging me down, I wonder why we even bother with January. But without the darkness there is no light. If I can survive January, then the coming months can only be an improvement. January shows me the shadow side of the year. It shows me how I don’t want to live my life. It pushes me towards brighter times ahead, making me long for transparency, integrity and optimism.

Then, just as January threatens to pull me under, there is a glimpse of hope on the horizon. Money is at last deposited in my bank account. The freezer, now empty, can be restocked. A lone crocus nods its purple head in my direction.

I wake up one morning and a shard of blue has broken through the oppressive grey skies. Thank goodness. February has finally arrived!

‘Why are you watching with subtitles?’ I ask the Nearly-Beloved. Could it be he has actually conceded his hearing is not what it used to be? Can I finally read the paper in peace in the kitchen without the accompaniment of a sports commentary blaring out from the living room? Apparently, not. The sound is still on heavy metal volume. But the language is unfamiliar.

‘I didn’t know you were a fan of Japanese anime,’ I say, bemused. Unfortunately, ‘Princess Mononoke’ is as popular with my republican husband as our homegrown black sheep royals. It turns out it’s Grunting Teen who’s the Studio Ghibli fan. Only he’s forgotten to switch back to the terrestrial channels his parents are more familiar with. And the Nearly-Beloved doesn’t have as much expertise with the remote control as he claims.

Personally, I gave up on the ‘zapper’ several years ago. This was when, overnight, it cloned into three identical replicas of itself. Apparently, one hooks up to the TV, another operates the DVD and the third is wired to unknown zones in the ether. It’s all beyond my comprehension and one of the few benefits of having an adolescent living in the house. You see, Grunting Teen is the First Footman to my Scullery Maid. In exchange for cooking and laundry duties, he organises my screen time.

Some may call it giving in to ineptitude but I quite enjoy being waited on for a change. It’s my mother’s queenly prerogative. And even if my servant attempts an occasional uprising, I just have to whisper the words ‘Food, clothing, taxi duties…,’ and he soon remembers his place.

‘See, mum,’ he tells me, as I settle down for a night’s viewing, ‘I’ve set everything up for ‘Call the Midwife’ and the volume is just right. So, don’t let Dad go anywhere near the zapper, otherwise I won’t be able to concentrate on the PS4 upstairs.’ Just as well then that his father wouldn’t be seen dead watching ‘that rubbish’.

But today the Second Footman is in charge and, I’m sad to say, definitely second best at the job. There’s no lightning-fast hand-eye coordination here. Just a lot of muttering and slow finger plonking. My attempts at help result in the DVD player groaning into action and the quick confiscation of remote-control number three. When I suggest calling for backup, I’m met with a stubborn glare. The Nearly-Beloved continues pressing random buttons that light up, switching the picture on the screen from an Imperial palace to an advert for Pizza Express. Then suddenly we are on Netflix, followed by a YouTube climbing video and, before we know it, we’ve set up a series-recording of Peppa Pig. And all this to cinematic Dolby stereo sound that I suspect may soon have the neighbours banging on the wall.

As the time ticks closer to the opening credits of ‘Match of the Day’, the Nearly-Beloved concedes defeat. The First Footman is summoned and, with a smirk, restores order at the push of a button. ‘I don’t want you to do it for me,’ grumbles his father, ‘just show me, so I can do it myself.’ But Grunting Teen is no foolish lackey. He knows that ‘he who controls the zapper, controls the household’. Bowing mockingly in his father’s direction, he disappears upstairs quicker than the subtitles from the screen. I too disappear. This time to the attic.

 At least there I won’t be able to hear a blow-by-blow account of the match. And yet, after a while, the silence is all pervading. It’s too quiet. I retrace my steps and peer round the living room door where the football is in full play but the crowds are unusually muted.

‘Why are you watching with subtitles?’ I ask in surprise.

The Nearly-Beloved smiles. ‘It’s the first time I’ve ever understood a word Roy Keane or Ally McCoist have said…’

As I look out at the pale grey sky of Sheffield, my phone pings with a post from a friend currently in Portugal. It’s all sun and smiles there as she basks in winter temperatures of 18C. Scrolling down to the other extreme, I come across another friend waving her skis at me from a snowy Alpine scene. I sigh and head off for my twice weekly visit to check on Darling Daughter and Little Angel.

I open the door with trepidation. I never know what I’m going to find. Some days a screaming, red-faced monster is thrust into my arms by a sobbing mess of post-partum hormones. Wild-eyed and hysterical, my sleep-deprived daughter proclaims her devil child will be put up for adoption unless intravenous caffeine is administered immediately. But today, thankfully, it’s all gurgles and giggling. Little Angel has discovered her hands and finds them hilarious. Super Son-in-law did the night shift so Darling Daughter is well-rested and wearing clean clothes rather than her usual, sick-stained dressing gown. ‘I think motherhood’s going to be ok,’ she announces, gazing fondly at the baby, who is enjoying the taste of tiny fingers. But then, tragically missing her mouth, Little Angel pokes herself in the eye and, just like that, the atmosphere changes, and the air is filled with banshee wails.

Returning home from my day of emotional extremes, I wonder what culinary delight will be awaiting me. You see, the Nearly-Beloved has taken to cooking as his contribution to grandchild care. The only problem is that he is no more proficient in the kitchen than I am. His first attempts at standard, pre-millennium school dinners are met with horror by his son, who proclaims liver and onions to be ‘disgusting’ and rice pudding to be ‘bland and boring’. But my husband isn’t put off, rising instead to the challenge of creating more ‘interesting’ meals.

‘Quick! Water!’ gasps Grunting Teen, spitting out a mouthful of black pudding madras. ‘I asked for spicy, dad, not flame-thrower hot!’ And even though the addition of strawberry yoghurt counteracts the heat, this now sweet and sour curry has been banned from future menus. The dessert of fruit pizza, whilst novel, and a nod in the direction of health, doesn’t improve my son’s mood. He’s been grumpy ever since he came back from school.

It turns out his recent grades are the problem. I point out that if he’s not at work or the climbing wall then he’s spending all his free time on the PS4 or with Polly Pocket, his pint-sized girlfriend. Maybe the answer is to spend a bit more time on his homework? These observations are met with a stony glare and a foot-stomping exit. But my words have sunk in and the following week he locks himself in his bedroom, studying until the early hours. The results are reflected in his new top marks. So why does he look so unhappy?

Maybe, like me, he’s been tuning in to the news headlines with their black and white coverage of the world around us. We’re either still Brexit or Remain, Vaccinated or Anti-Vax, pro-Djokovic or against. Whatever happened to a half-way house point of view?

But fast-forward a week and a happy balance has been found. Darling Daughter sends me a photo of Little Angel looking Buddha-peaceful in her Moses basket. She’s settling into a routine and life is no longer so full of rollercoaster highs and lows. As for the Nearly-Beloved’s recipes, a run-of-the-mill Spag Bol is his current go-to staple and what’s not to like about that? And Grunting Teen has realised that switching from ‘all play and no work’ to ‘all work and no play’ is not the way forward either. There’s a middle ground of having both decent grades and a social life.

What’s more, when my friends return – one with unexpected sunburn and the other with tales of blizzards cancelling all skiing – I give thanks for my grey skies. Extremes exist. But they aren’t always the best place to be.

I wake up in the middle of the night with the sugar sweats. It’s my body’s way of rebelling against those invading forces from Christmas – Quality Street and Roses. They joined league with Tia Maria, Cointreau and Amoretto – foreign mercenaries who go undercover for eleven months of the year then rally to the war cry during December.

You see, even if the festivities are behind us now, the battle scars are still a visible reminder of the collateral damage we’ve suffered. And all of it is ‘friendly fire.’ We’ve no one to blame but ourselves! Oh, why did I think that a double helping of bhajis with my bhuna would make a victorious accompaniment to Ant and Dec’s Boxing Day ‘Take-away’? And was scoffing an entire Yule log really a just dessert for the post-New Year cease-fire in socialising?

I blame the Nearly-Beloved. He went behind enemy lines, plundering the goody-bag arsenal and liberating any remaining snacks. ‘They’ve got to be eaten,’ he told me. ‘We can’t just abandon them.’

But, judging by the Pringles-tin-shrapnel covering the floor, Grunting Teen has already stumbled into the mine field of unfinished sweets and savouries. Now he’s lying on the field-hospital sofa, his skin tinged Chocolate Orange.

‘Mum, I feel bare unhealthy,’ he groans. ‘I need to get fit.’

‘You can join me down the gym then,’ says his father, sucking in his stomach in an attempt to disguise the spare tyre acquired on inactive duty.

Thank goodness then it’s ‘Veganuary’, the month when we retreat to build up our strength and resources. No more idling in front of the TV, no more fancy food and drink, no more home leave. Instead, it’s back to boot camp and basic rations.

Unfortunately, allies and enemies alike have gone for the same tactics. The Nearly-Beloved returns unamused from his work-out. ‘The place was rammed out,’ he complains. ‘Full of amateurs who can’t tell a dumbbell from a kettlebell. And they need to fix their scales – I can’t have put on that much weight!’

Grunting Teen is also unimpressed. He headed for the climbing wall. And, for once, couldn’t complete his usual route. Apparently, all the holds must have been changed. What other explanation could there be?

Morale is low. The troops need cheering up. But the provisions stock is now bare. I dish out a soup, concocted from blackening veg, liberated from the bottom of the fridge. It’s supposed to be healthy and heart-warming but instead it’s bland and bleak. For afters there’s a skirmish over a bruised apple. The losers end up with a squidgy tangerine and over-ripe banana. We all go to bed hungry. Sleep is sporadic and interrupted by more sugar sweats.

Fast forward two weeks and Grunting Teen is back route-marching to school every day, his stamina and fitness honed by a diet devoid of carbs from the now empty ‘forbidden cupboard’. At the gym the Christmas-present-conscripts have gone AWOL, their New Year’s resolutions abandoned by apathy. Only the professionals remain. The Nearly-Beloved has regained control of his body. He’s returned to tip top military condition and now views the festive season defeat as a mere blip in the fight against flab.

As for me, I’ve been debriefed on my reckless conduct and detoxed of all sugar. I’ve survived an intensive training programme and am now ready for action. I should be honoured to be recruited to the fitness battalion. But being a member of this elite squad has its drawbacks. Who wants to go for a run when it’s gloomy and grey outside? And swimming is surely too much effort on a cold, wet day?

Which is why, as hail batters the windows, I’m caught defecting from my post.

‘Mum, what are you doing?’ gasps Grunting Teen, star-jumping into the room.

I wipe my lips in vain. But the chocolatey crumbs reveal me as a deserter to the cause. That rogue box of Fox’s biscuits down the cellar is my undoing. Good job they haven’t yet discovered my secret stash of Walnut Whips in the attic…

As Big Ben chimes twelve, I half-heartedly clink glasses with the Nearly-Beloved. My hopes of boogying the night away have been scuppered. Omicron and middle age have put paid to my partying. The latest Covid variant has gate-crashed the festive season and only the young and intrepid are brave enough to join the rave. No midnight knees-up for me. Just a humble Hootenanny with Jools whilst my other half moans about the miseries of the last twelve months. So much for New Year’s Eve excitement! I down the remains of a lukewarm Prosecco and head for bed.

The plus side is I greet January 1st with bright eyes and a clear head. Not so the Nearly-Beloved who stayed up watching re-runs of Glastonbury with his good friend Glenfiddich and is now somewhat the worse for wear. ‘Good riddance to 2021,’ he mutters as I hand him a glass of Alka-Seltzer, ‘But I can’t see the year ahead being much better.’ This is not the introduction to 2022 that I need, so I put on my running shoes and leave in search of inspiration.

It’s so easy to follow the same old route. But a new year calls for new challenges, so I set off for the city centre and a run along the canal side. I haven’t been here in years and am surprised by what I find. Victoria Quays has been tastefully redeveloped and the canal basin is host to brightly painted, spirit-lifting barges. I carry on along the tow path, passing the occasional walker, who offers me a cheery greeting. It’s hard to remember that a year ago we were in Lockdown 3 when pedestrians would jump into a nearby bush to avoid all contact with an incoming jogger. But now we are all multi-vaxed, so even with Omicron on the loose, the sense of danger is much reduced.

As I run on, the surroundings become less industrial, the path opens up into grassy, tree-lined areas with birds flying past and ducks bobbing on the water. It’s positively bucolic! I pass several fishermen, who tell me they’ve caught carp and pike this morning. With all the doom and gloom of global warming, it’s good to know that this once polluted canal has had a major clean up and is no longer stuck in its ‘Full Monty’ version. I’m glad I made the decision to run here – I didn’t realise how much had changed.

Arriving home, I enter the house at the same time as Grunting Teen. He’s returning from his first New Year’s Eve sleepover at the Liberal Parents’ house. And, judging by the sight of him, not much sleeping has been achieved. ‘Happy New Year, mum,’ he says, folding me in a six-foot hug that smells more of bear and beer than boy. 

‘Did you have a nice time, sweetheart?’ I ask. ‘Yeah, it was well good,’ he replies, ‘I think 2022 is going to be okay, innit?’

‘You’re right,’ I reply. ‘At least the schools will be open, unlike last January. And all things considered, 2021 redeemed itself half way through the year. It can’t have been as bad as dad makes out.’

‘2021?’ interrupts the Nearly-Beloved, now looking a lighter shade of green. He waves his phone at us. ‘I’ve just been reviewing my annual photo book online. Turns out the year was better than I remembered. See, I’d forgotten about my mum’s 90^th and that family reunion in May.  And there’s some lovely pictures of our holiday in Pembrokeshire, those two weddings we went to and the arrival of our little angel.’

He smiles and I smile back. The internet and fresh air have done the trick. Sometimes we just have to look back to see that things weren’t as bad as we thought and that also they have a tendency to change for the better. Let’s hope the trend continues into 2022. Happy New Year!

It’s the time of year for sending and receiving Christmas cards. Some, posted through the door by neighbours and friends just contain a season’s greeting and a signature. It’s a cultural convention, showing good manners or affection. Others are a yearly minefield – the ones sent from a past life – ex-university flat mates, former work colleagues, or that friend who’s still on your list simply because you went to Primary school together. They are meant to make you feel remembered. But sometimes these annual Round Robins leave me wanting.

The gold-embossed card with the personalised photo full of sparkling Hollywood teeth has me trembling even before I open it and reminds me that Grunting Teen is well overdue a post-pandemic check-up. If only, like Georgina from my student days, I’d gone into a career in banking, I too might have had a second home in the country. The news in this year’s update is rather self-congratulatory. With her generous divorce settlement, she’s bought a lovely pad in Chelsea. And despite having to cancel her skiing trip and a safari this year, she’s still managed to yacht around the Greek islands and pop over to Paris and Porto. Suddenly my day-trip to Cleethorpes loses its sparkle… As for little Hugo, Grunting Teen’s contemporary, he apparently aced his GCSEs and bagged a summer internship with a top-class firm in London.

‘How come I ended up pot washing?’ demands my son, muttering under his breath about the North-South divide, private education and a useless family with no ‘connections’.

‘At least your parents are still together. And you got your job on your own merits,’ the Nearly-Beloved tells him.

And I suppose, he’s right. The grass always looks greener…

Next, I open the slightly risqué Santa greetings full of in-house references, which makes me nostalgic. The days when I had work mates to share banter with has long gone and although a free-lance career has lots of benefits, I miss the comradery that goes with being part of a team. As for our annual festive bash, it was always a highlight. When I express my regrets to the Nearly-Beloved, he looks baffled.

‘You couldn’t wait to leave,’ he says. ‘And besides, everyone’s been working from home for most of the last two years. As for the Christmas party – if they haven’t cancelled it yet, they’ll probably be unwrapping Omicron on the 25^th December!’

I nod. Again, he’s got a point. The grass always looks greener. Until suddenly it doesn’t… Smiley Sue, who got her nickname in Y6 for her relentless positivity, doesn’t seem to have had much to smile about this year. Illness, redundancy, and enough family drama to fuel a soap opera.

As I relay the news to the Nearly-Beloved, he shrugs. ‘That’s sad,’ he says, ‘But it’s not as if you two are in touch very often.’

His comment strikes a chord and before I know it, I’ve got out my mobile and typed in Sue’s number. She’s amazed and delighted to hear from me. Once I’ve sympathised about her situation, we move on to reminiscing about our school antics and time flies by. It’s only when Grunting Teen pops his head round the door, groaning ‘I’m well hungry,’ that we end the conversation, promising to meet up in person in the new year.

As I put down the phone, I reflect on why I still send Christmas cards to people who no longer have a starring role in my life. It’s definitely a way of remembering past lives and friendships. Occasionally it’s a way of reconnecting. And it’s also a reminder that the grass on my side is actually green enough.

With minimal shopping days left until Christmas, the Nearly-Beloved descends into panic mode. Apparently, Amazon Prime no longer guarantees delivery before the big day, so my ‘special present’ may not arrive in time. I raise an eyebrow in mock surprise. After all, I’m used to a hastily wrapped box of chocolates and wilting bouquet from the local garage. Plus, the usual ‘desperate husband’ Christmas Eve shopping spree is no longer a possibility since two of Sheffield’s go-to department stores have now closed down. Sniffing an opportunity, I suggest a day out in York. His face falls until he realises his only other option is to brave the virusy pits of Meadowhell. At least York is full of pubs…

We head for a drink to recover from the trauma of the delayed rail trip, full of the rule-defying unmasked. But pubs are safe, apparently. Omicron only inhabits public transport, shops and work spaces – it can’t handle a pint of bitter. Besides, this local hostelry is unseasonably empty. Some people at least have cancelled their Christmas parties…

As we split up and I browse the market stalls, I come across a few extras for Darling Daughter and some fun stocking fillers for Grunting Teen, who, for once, has impressed me. No need to pick up presents on his behalf this year. ‘Already sorted, mum, innit,’ he tells me, looking with an air of superiority at his dad. ‘Thanks Polly’, I whisper under my breath, knowing that this uncharacteristic preparedness is totally down to his pocket-sized girlfriend.

And although I’m not a shopper by nature, I’m enjoying this outdoor experience. Indoor retail therapy, with pandemic restrictions, simply doesn’t work for me. I’m now of an age where I need my specs to peruse any purchases. And while I can negotiate my way blindfold round the local supermarket, any unknown store presents a great risk. If bifocals and masks are involved, I only have a ten second window of opportunity before the world goes misty and I crash into the nearest display. I’ve tried snug-fitting face coverings, anti-fog lens atomisers and downwards breathing. But I’ve found from bitter experience that the suffocated, mace-spray-wielding, Darth-Vader look doesn’t go down well with in-house security guards.

At least here I can breathe easily and see where I’m going. And today there’s no rush either. I’ve already got my main gifts, bought from Sheffield independents as my way of thanking them for staying open throughout difficult times. I’ve had it with the John Lewis’s of this world. And internet shopping is currently in my bad books too, citing delivery problems to non-UK addresses. This means my Lost Boy in the Netherlands will go present-less this Christmas. Thank goodness, he’s his father’s son and hastily suggests we just have a zoom call on the day, instead of ‘sending unnecessary stuff’. And he’s right. For if nothing else, the pandemic has taught me that it’s people not presents that count. So, I’ve sent him a thoughtful card with heartfelt words of love.

Still, it’s nice to look at ‘stuff’ which differs from the ubiquitous chain store offerings. And every now and then I come across some lovely earrings or a pretty scarf that would be ideal to open on Christmas Day. I take a snap and post to the Family WhatsApp. There’s nothing like a subtle hint…

As I arrive at the station to rendezvous with the Nearly-Beloved, I wonder why he looks guilty and out of breath. Is that a box of chocolates poking out from his bag?

‘Did you buy what you needed?’ I ask.

He nods unconvincingly. And with a wife’s innate detective skills it’s not long before I uncover the truth. It so happened that rugby was on the pub’s big screen, shopping skipped his mind, and the WhatsApp photos were all in vain. Let’s hope he has some particularly well-thought-out words of love to accompany those garage flowers. And that special present had better turn out to be very special indeed …

Today I break a mug. Not any old mug. The cheesy mug with the big red heart that the Nearly-Beloved bought me for our ‘China’ anniversary many moons ago. It may not have been the cruise along the Yangtze River I’d been hoping for but at least it was lovingly chosen…

The problem now – apart from confessing my sin – is which mug is going to replace it?

In ideal families, who live in tidy, designer homes, tea is drunk out of colour co-ordinated cups that match the palette of their kitchens. Alas, not in our household!  My kitchen cupboard is an orphanage to a motley crew of abandoned or purloined pottery. What’s more, certain mugs already have an owner and woe-betide anyone who tries to drink out of those!

Grunting Teen has staked a claim on the ‘Cadbury’s’ mug. He’s welcome to it as far as I’m concerned. It may give him the old-fashioned feel-good factor with its vintage air and authentic crack down the middle, but to me, there is something fundamentally wrong with drinking tea out of a cup that contains the word ‘chocolate’ on it.

‘Pontypool RUFC’, circa 1978, is obviously a no-go area. It came as part of my marriage vows and has a special shelf all of its own. Thank goodness I didn’t drop that! And ‘Smiley Fish’ is also out of bounds. It’s sunny in a charming Mediterranean way but, as the only non-chipped drinking vessel, it is invariably reserved for guests.                                            

Maybe I could risk the ‘Star Wars’ mug? It once held an Easter egg. But the handle has been superglued back on and I fear the Force may long since have abandoned it…

Then there’s always the cutting edge ‘German Bauhaus’ masterpiece, purchased on a whim from a museum shop in Dusseldorf. It’s cool and Teutonic. Yet its slanting design is unnerving. What’s more, it has a superior air that mocks you at the first sign of spillage.

I could resort to ‘Boring Stoneware’, the sole survivor of the class of four. But its bland respectability means I keep it in reserve for any visits by officialdom or in-laws.

Maybe ‘Psychedelic Spots’ – an heirloom from my student days – could get promoted? But on second thoughts there’s a reason why I’ve always kept it out of sight…

‘Nasty Bee’ is an obvious no. It’s the mug of last resort, usually only offered to workmen or the Nearly-Beloved when he’s in my bad books.

That leaves the assortment of plastic cups which hang out on the naughty step. They are the remnants of childhood, and have never quite grown up. ‘Teletubbies’, with its lingering smell of toddler tantrums and sticky Ribena, is an old favourite. It was such fun with its swivelling middle that I could never bear to part with it. But to drink from its slightly chewed, germ-infested rim is dicing too closely with death.

So, by process of elimination, my new mug of choice must be ‘Someone Special’.

It was given to me by one of my former students, and despite its oversentimentality, it is strong, sturdy and the only thing in the household that still appreciates me.

As I celebrate my decision with a cup of ‘Special’ tea, the door opens. The Nearly-Beloved is home. It’s time to beg his forgiveness. Underneath it all he’s quite a softie, a closet romantic. I hope he won’t be too upset about the breakage. After all, he knows how much his thoughtful gift meant to me by the very fact I managed to keep it intact and crack-free for over a decade.

But memory is a strange thing. It turns out I needn’t have worried. The man who swore he’d taken days to pick out the ideal anniversary gift looks at me in confusion. ‘That tacky, old mug?’ he asks bemused, ‘I never liked it anyway…’