Musings on the Mundane

Is hope finally on the horizon? Updates about vaccinations are occupying almost as much air time as infection rates, which are finally falling.

However, the nightly news never likes to encourage too much positivity and so is currently promoting ‘vaccine anxiety’ just to keep us on our toes. The headlines delight in our clashing with the EU over who receives priority shipments of the life-saving drugs and the possible creation of post-Brexit border difficulties. With relations between nations now focusing on competition rather than cooperation, the world is participating in a shameful playground game of ‘I’ve got more vaccine than you. Na-na na-na na-na!’

And if that doesn’t work us up enough then let’s introduce a vaccine hierarchy. Instead of celebrating the achievement of having so much choice of preventative medicine in such a short space of time, let’s create anxiety about which type is more effective. A different game of ‘My vaccine’s better than your vaccine. So there!’

My mother-in-law received her Oxford-AstraZeneca injection over a week ago. At nearly ninety she wasn’t impressed at having to travel to a local stadium to get it, whilst much sprightlier seventy-year-olds simply walked down the street to their local GPs. And now, as well as worrying whether her next dose, not due for another twelve weeks, will give her proper immunity, she’s also concerned that it’s not as efficient for her age group as the Pfizer version.

And then there’s the new Covid variant to throw into the mix. Will the current vaccine do its job against that, or is the latest Moderna offering the jab to hold out for? And who should we prioritise in this roll-out lottery? The current thinking is to safeguard the elderly and infirm and so take the pressure off the NHS. But there is also the case for protecting our key-workers and immunising teachers so that we can get our youngsters back into education.

Indeed, both parents and children definitely need a dose of something stronger than mere optimism to survive ‘Home-schooling 3,’ the movie with the worst reviews in history. With the announcement that schools are not re-opening their doors at half-term as expected, wine-o’clock in many houses is getting earlier and earlier.

Grunting Teen, who has so far been quite resilient, finally gives in to full-blown despair. ‘Mum,’ he groans, ‘this totally sucks. What’s the point in it all? I hate my life.’ I try jollying him out of it, bringing him regular treats and even randomly tickling him but none of it does the trick.  He’s not sleeping well. There are dark circles under his eyes and he’s looking pale and pasty. The Nearly-Beloved and I take it in turns to cajole or physically force him out for daily exercise but a forty-minute walk round the streets with uncool parents does little to lift his spirits. He misses his routine, his climbing and his mates. Yet when I suggest he meets up to exercise with a friend, he rolls his eyes. It seems that teenage boys are pack animals. They don’t do ‘talking and walking’.

And so, his only survival strategy is to connect on-line. No wonder then that we are producing a generation of ‘bedroom boys’ – young males, cocooned in their PlayStation safety blankets and increasingly reluctant to set foot outside into the real world. Will there be a vaccination against that, I wonder?

In the meantime, I’ve read too many self-help books to give up on my adolescent.

‘You need to be the light for others,’ I encourage him, as he tells me some of his friends haven’t left the house in weeks. ‘Don’t let them drag you down into the hole with them. You need to help pull them out.’

He doesn’t look convinced. ‘What’s the point?’ he moans, when I remind him that he’s meant to be paying attention to the science teacher’s PowerPoint slides rather than scrolling aimlessly on his phone. ‘I don’t understand any of it and don’t tell me to ask the teacher. As if!’

In fact, trying to tell him anything at the moment is not working. Sometimes you just have to sit with how you feel. ‘Look,’ I point out, ‘it’s okay to invite an unwanted guest into your house. But that doesn’t mean you have to make them a cup of tea.’

He raises his eyebrows. My zen wisdom is lost on him. But thankfully my mother’s intuition is not. ‘You know what,’ I say, ‘how about we ditch school for today? I’ll rustle up some popcorn and hot chocolate whilst you pick out an age-inappropriate comedy on Netflix.

And a dose of laughter later, Grunting Teen is back in recovery, with a pre-pandemic glow about him. He even has a smile on his face again as he responds to a text and unexpectedly fetches his coat and shoes.

‘Where are you going?’ I ask.

‘Just off for a walk with a mate,’ he replies, as if it’s a daily occurrence.

I smile back. Hope is still on the horizon.

Grunting Teen is acting strangely today. He keeps flapping into my room, sighing, then disappearing. I reluctantly pause the latest YouTube cat video to investigate.

‘What’s up?’ I ask in the break between his online classes.

‘It’s this,’ he shrugs, pointing at his newly acquired laptop.

‘But we’ve only just bought it,’ I panic, wondering what could’ve gone wrong so soon.

‘No, not that thing.’ He rolls his eyes, knowing how technology and his mother don’t mix. ‘It’s the whole on-line whatsit. It sucks. I know, like, the teachers are doing their best but it’s just not the same as being in class. I hate it. And I’m going to, like, fail all my thingies. And then I’ll never have a proper whatchamacallit.’

I raise my eyebrows. Sometimes his grunting is easier to understand than his actual speech. By ‘thingies’ I assume he means his GCSEs. And so far, the government’s explanation of how grades will be awarded this year has been no clearer. First there were going to be actual exams. Then teacher assessment was deemed fairer. Now there is talk of ‘mini-exams’. So, I can well understand my teenager’s angst.

‘I’m sure you’ll be fine,’ I tell him.

‘I don’t think so, mum,’ he wails, his pale face making me anxious now. ‘And remember you’ve got my thing this afternoon. I bet, like, it’ll be awful.’

I’m confused. I wish he’d be more specific.

He continues, as if I’m the idiot. ‘You know, the what’s-it that Dad never comes to ‘cos he claims to be at work. The thingy where the teachers tell you how badly I’m doing.’

Aaah. All is finally clear. Parents’ evening. I’d totally forgotten. And this time it’s online. Great!

A few hours later, with the Nearly-Beloved conveniently ‘at work’, I go on to the school’s website. Where on earth is the log-in code? Several frantic texts later, a friend forwards me the link. I type it in and stumble into my first appointment with the Maths teacher, who looks barely older than Grunting Teen. To make up for her youth, she bamboozles me with class test results, percentages and ratios. It’s exactly like the nightly Covid news. Facts and figures fly around and statistics are brandished to prove a point. I leave the meeting none the wiser. 

Then with a click of the mouse I land in the next room. At first, I assume I’m in the wrong place. Grunting Teen – a ‘natural historian’, a boy with a ‘keen curiosity’? Are we talking about my son? The one with zero interest in current affairs? The one too busy invading imaginary countries on his PS4 to even notice the storming of the Capitol building in Washington. But before I can request clarification, my five minutes are up and the system sends me on my way.

I end up in French territory where ‘le prof’ and I both agree my teen will never be a linguist. But as going abroad post-Brexit and mid-pandemic seems increasingly unlikely, it’s not a career-breaker. When she unexpectedly awards him ‘cinq’ rather than ‘nul points’, I leave our talks with what I consider to be a ‘good deal’.

But now I have a gap between appointments. In normal times, this is the fun part of the evening – the chance to catch up with other parents and realise my child is almost normal. But alone in my virtual waiting room, boredom takes over and I start to explore the website. Suddenly I’m logged out of the system and when I eventually log back in there are only ninety seconds left of my meeting with the biology teacher. Just enough time to be informed that science is not my son’s strong point. Is it anybody’s though? After all, our politicians have a rather selective grasp of the subject.

Whilst I’m pondering whether the latest vaccination figures are down to good science or good PR, Miss Biology morphs into Mr English and explains how the class have been discussing the language of the pandemic, with its focus on fear and dread. He reassures me that grunting and incoherence are natural parental-adolescent interactions and that my teenager is actually quite articulate.

This fact is also confirmed in my final session with the Psychology teacher. It’s Grunting Teen’s favourite subject and, apparently, he’s done brilliantly in his latest module.

So, I leave the Parents’ Evening pleasantly surprised with my son’s progress. From the way he was behaving I was expecting far worse. As a treat, I order a takeaway and put some money on his PS4 games card. He thanks me with a knowing smile.

‘Just out of interest,’ I ask, ‘what have you been studying in Psychology?’

He flushes, then confesses, with no hint of a grunt or a ‘thingy’, that he got top marks in ‘the art of manipulation’. Oh well, he should have a bright ‘whatchamacallit’ in politics then…

So, after our brief ‘Born Free’ uncaging at Christmas, we find ourselves back in national lockdown, stuck in our own version of ‘Groundhog Day’. And whilst cinemas remain closed for the foreseeable future, our personal screenplays continue, with a variety of genres on offer throughout the day.

With both my husband and son now at home, it feels like I’m in an arty French film. You know, the worthy type, with its worldly insights and skilful camera work panning in on the main character who’s consuming a peach in real time. Sadly, worldly insights in our house are limited to teenage grunts and middle-aged moaning, and my current storyline consists entirely of people either eating or demanding food. Let’s face it, this category is less ooh la la excitement and more mon Dieu boredom.

Grunting Teen hankers after an action movie. He’s not impressed with this black and white silent version of life. He wants a return to a 4 D cinema experience with full Dolby surround sound. Unfortunately, with gyms and climbing walls closed and contact with non-household members a distant memory, he’s now become a reclusive cave-dweller. Or possibly an extra in a period drama. For once again the streets are becoming nineteenth-century quiet, with those new-fangled automobiles being replaced by two-wheeled transport or lycra-clad legs.

At least, this lockdown, the schools seem better prepared with their in-house entertainment. It’s a daily musical medley of maths and media studies, choreographed by chemistry and produced by PE. The downside is that accessing online learning through a mobile phone has become impractical, so the holiday-we-never-had refund has now been spent on a laptop.

This adds further fuel to the Nearly-Beloved’s evening litany of complaints in front of the box of horrors. He is a particular fan of the Zombie Apocalypse nightly news with its fear-inducing death count. Sci-fi images of Covid-19 flash in front of our eyes but there are no Guardians of the Galaxy coming to our rescue just yet.

The whole situation is a bit of a thriller actually, getting the viewers wondering. Who is the perpetrator of this pandemic? Who is violating the viral code? Who has released the new variant? And where the hell are the good cops when you need them?

What we want is a decent Western, gun-toting, vaccine-carrying hero to ride into town to save us. But what we’ve got are some cartoon characters, so badly dubbed from the original version that their words and actions are never in sync.

No wonder then that my film of choice is always a mood-lifting romcom. Oh, to laugh at my troubles and be swept off my feet by a knight in shining armour. Obviously, this is as likely as a politician’s promise. But at least I can draw comfort from the fact that we are not in a war film. No bombs or shells are exploding around us. And though we may be under house arrest, that’s got to be an improvement on a prison camp.

There may be no A-listers in this current performance and it certainly isn’t going to be a box-office hit. But sometimes films are so bad they’re good. Besides, I always choose one with a happy ending…

So, we’ve waved a not-so-fond farewell to 2020 and embraced 2021 with a flurry of anticipation and snow. The fizzled-out fireworks in the garden have been removed, as have the festive decorations. But to be honest, I’ve not quite recovered from the excitement of it all. My arms are still aching from the sustained hugging of Darling Daughter and Super Son-in-law and my throat is still sore from the excessive amount of talking to non-household members from the comfort of my sofa. Now, however, New Year weariness is kicking in, with the realisation that no magic wand has yet transformed the Covid landscape. Restrictions are still in place, albeit of the Tier 3 not Tier 4 variety, and I feel hungover with anxiety rather than alcohol at the thought of a continuing Groundhog year.

Still at least Grunting Teen is ‘well happy’. He’s succeeded in winning several snowball fights with his father and is delighted by the government’s decision to postpone the start of the school term. The Nearly-Beloved is also pleased. He’s finally managed to get his money’s worth on all that ‘sensible waterproof footwear’ he’s bought his son over the years. He’s now wearing the size 9 gortex shoes that never made it out of the box, whilst I am cosy in the size 6 walking boots that complained their way through one enforced hiking trip then remained silent for ever more. Grunting Teen, in his size 11 fashionable trainers and jeans with more holes than denim, doesn’t seem bothered by his unsuitable attire and claims to feel ‘cool’ rather than cold.

I, on the other hand, can’t shake off the icy feeling that’s got a grip on my heart, as I read about rapidly rising infection rates, slow-moving vaccination programmes and a soon-to-be-overwhelmed NHS.

‘Are you alright, mum?’ The teenager surprises me with his show of concern. But the Nearly Beloved just rolls his eyes.

‘It’s January,’ he explains. ‘Your mother always takes a nose-dive after Christmas.’

And he’s right. The super-virus is not to blame, for once. You see, I always feel melancholic at the start of a new year. But my usual remedy is to meet up with friends for hot chocolate and even hotter chats, warm up in a sauna and steam room, or browse the web for my dream summer holiday. None of these are possible this January.

Grunting Teen interrupts my descent into darkness. ‘You need a New Year’s resolution, mum,’ he tells me.

‘Oh yeah, sonny. What’s yours then?’ asks his father.

‘I’m going to focus on what needs to be done. I’m determined to work hard in every school subject,’ our boy announces. ‘And no, PS4 is not on the core curriculum, dad, before you crack that joke. Again.’ he replies.

I raise an eyebrow in my teen’s direction as he explains.

‘See, I’d usually just leave it up to the last minute and cram for my exams. Which is fine, as we are supposed to be sitting GCSEs. But they told us that last year too. And look how that panned out! No, better to be on the safe side and in the teachers’ good books.’

He smiles at me with a maturity I’ve not noticed before. Perhaps he’s coming out the other side of adolescence? Maybe sensible footwear might not be that far off…

I smile back, determined to take on board the lesson he’s just taught me.

‘What are you doing?’ asks the Nearly-Beloved as I scrabble through the kitchen cupboard.

‘I’m looking for that old thermos,’ I tell him. ‘I’m going to heat up some of that Gluhwein we never got through because Christmas was curtailed, ‘then I’m going to meet up with my friends for some spicy wine and even spicier conversation as we sweat it out on a stomp through the woods. And when I get back, I’m going to research my dream summer holiday… of 2022.’

Yes, my New Year’s resolution is to focus on what needs to be done.

Dear 2020

I regret to inform you that I, along with many others, won’t be sorry to wave you off.

After all, you’ve not been the easiest of guests and you have most definitely outstayed your welcome!

With your apparently normal behaviour, you trick us into complacency for the first three months. Playing the part of a run-of-the-mill year, you offer us up our usual stay-at-home-pay-the-credit-card-off dry January, renewal-of-socialising February and summer-holiday-planning early March. But then you go skiing, don’t you? And, of course, you have to go off-piste, bringing back a souvenir of the most unwanted kind.

Queues, panic-buying, face-masks, hand-gel. These are what you carry home in your suitcase. And once Pandora’s box has been opened, we all know the lid can never be forced on again.

Still, you are contrite. You do try to make amends, gifting us a community spirit, with your Zoom meet-ups, WhatsApp street groups and we’re-all-in-this-together sense of unity-in-adversity. Online yoga, weekly quizzes, learn-a-new-language in furlough land – our days are full, and every Thursday we clap our appreciation.

For a while the unseasonal warm weather and the novelty factor mean you almost seem part of the family. And with a Strict Mum mentality at the helm, we toe the line, sing Happy Birthday as we wash our hands and feel that if we all do our bit then we’ll get that pesky virus under control in no time. But then the toddlers start having tantrums. They’re not used to the word ‘no’ or waiting for a reward. They want instant gratification. They ship Strict Mum off to New Zealand, leaving Fun Dad in charge.

Fun Dad loves a good wheeze and a jolly caper. He likes us to let our hair down, eat out and go on the razzle. He doesn’t want to be the bad guy, telling us off when we book our eye-test at the local castle instead of Specsavers. So, when it all goes pear-shaped, he looks to the north for a scapegoat and puts us indefinitely on the naughty step. But unlike Strict Mum, he doesn’t realise that fairness is the key to compliance. And Strict Mum always spells things out so clearly, whereas Fun Dad’s explanations are often confusing and make no sense.

And you 2020, quite frankly, just encourage him. You give us a heat wave so we all rush off in unmasked hordes to the beach. Then you pile on the autumnal gloom, grey skies and freezing rain so that the temptation to ‘just come inside’ becomes too much for some. And when a magic vaccine promises to save us all in time for Christmas, you throw in a mutation and a foreign maybe-no-deal diversion.

Fun Dad has been doing his best – although, to be honest, he could do a lot better, and he doesn’t look as if he’s having much fun anymore either. He’s tried to rally us for the festive season, promising us a traditional sugar-filled Christmas. But you’re not playing ball, 2020, and he’s had to backtrack from Diet Christmas to Christmas Zero. So, the whole nation is fed up with you now, 2020. You’ve pocketed all the decent cracker gifts and your jokes are rubbish. We need Strict Mum to come home immediately and boot you out.

She’ll be disappointed that we didn’t always rise to the challenge, that we didn’t get your coat and gloves on straight away and march you out of the door. But she’ll be understanding. She’ll ask us what we’ve learnt from the experience and how we can move on.

And when we actually reflect, it may be that, given time, we’ll think of you with fondness, 2020. For you are the year that’s forced us off the treadmill of life. You are the year that’s introduced us to a different way of working and studying. You are the year that’s demonstrated that a Fun Dad way of living isn’t sustainable and that Mother Earth needs some stricter rules. You are the year that’s shown us that abundance is not about material wealth but about the riches of family and friendship.

And you are the year that’s taught us the virtues of patience, kindness and compassion.

That said, it really is time for you to leave now. Bring on 2021!

Despite the government Grinches cancelling Christmas at the last moment, the festive spirit is still hanging on in there. Tomorrow, for the first time in three months, I will finally be allowed to hug my daughter as she steps foot inside our house. No more huddling under umbrellas in the park – at least for this one-day amnesty. Who knows what will happen after that?

So, for now, we’re keeping up the tradition of watching a seasonal film. Just, this year, it’s in virtual-togetherness. The Nearly-Beloved has put down his choices on the family WhatsApp but he’s outnumbered as usual. Girl power is in the ascendance here, Super Son-in-law has been well-trained to agree with his wife, and Grunting Teen’s vote has been discounted as not serious since he’s permanently got one eye on his phone. So, Love Actually is the movie of choice yet again, despite mutterings from the Nearly-Beloved that Hugh Grant’s Prime-Minister role is totally ridiculous. Although, personally, I think he makes a very welcome change…

‘Oh, I’m feeling so Christmassy now,’ Darling Daughter texts, ‘and looking out of the window, the houses round here have really gone to town on the decorations. I love to see all those outdoor lights.’

I look daggers at the Nearly-Beloved. He believes Christmas should remain firmly inside and a wreath on the front door is as far as festive fun is allowed to go. No fairy lights in the trees for us. But thankfully Super Son-in-law’s passed the rigorous pre-marriage test of essential lighting etiquette and their garden is ablaze with winter wonderland magic.

I console myself by dipping my hands simultaneously into the boxes of Roses and Quality Street before texting back. ‘You’re right. People have made a real effort this year. There’s not been much to look forward to, so it’s a welcome distraction. It gives me a lot of pleasure seeing their fancy displays.’ I throw another evil look at the Nearly Beloved who tries to deflect the criticism by mounting an attack on his son for not paying close enough attention to the film.

‘We watch this every year dad,’ counters Grunting Teen, ‘can’t I go and play on the PS4 instead.’

There is a shocked silence at this break in family tradition until his face reddens and he stutters by way of explanation, ‘it’s just that ‘you know who’ has finished working now and can hang out with me…’

The silence deepens and I can feel a lump rising in my throat. ‘This film always makes me cry,’ I mumble.  The Nearly-Beloved uncharacteristically reaches out and gives my hand a squeeze as I wipe away a tear. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. ‘I’ll make a cup of tea, shall I?’ he says in his hurry to leave the room.

‘Mum?’ Grunting Teen asks again, this time with more urgency.

I put on a brave smile. ‘Yes, well, off you go love,’ I tell my teen, ‘and let him know we’ll speak to him in the morning.’

For this is my Lost Boy, my older son who we haven’t seen for over a year now. Working abroad and quarantine restrictions have made it impossible to meet up. And I rarely mention him because it makes my heart hurt too much. So, like many other families this Christmas, our turkey dinner will be noticeable for its absences. Last year there were eleven of us round the table. This year there will be just five.

For a moment I’m overwhelmed by sadness. But hearing the ping of another message and the laughter coming down the stairs as my two boys connect over the internet, I’m so grateful that, despite being apart, we can still find ways to be together. We can focus on what we are missing or we can focus on what we have. And as I imagine giving my daughter the umpteenth hug of Christmas Day, I realise that I’m very lucky. There’s an awful lot of love actually

Our festive decorations are finally up. Due to a certain someone’s reluctance to embrace the Christmas spirit, we are the last in the street to deck our boughs with holly. However, the finished results look rather splendid.

As usual it’s been a real family collaboration. This is always a surprise because not everyone approaches this task in the same way.

Take the Nearly-Beloved. He is all in favour of a strict tree etiquette that neither I nor Grunting Teen adhere to. Given his way, our family Grinch would ban tinsel, keep baubles to the bare minimum and demand strict non-melting visa requirements of any chocolate snowman, robin or reindeer. Every year he tries to steer us towards his carefully packed selection of tasteful red and gold ornaments. But we know better and have already raided the cellar for the tried and trusted bag of family favourites.

‘Oh, where’s that glittery dinosaur I made in Y3?’ asks Grunting Teen, forgetting his adolescent cool and rummaging with childish glee through our cherished heirlooms. His father rolls his eyes and in a desperate attempt for elegance over nostalgia he tries to wrestle the sparkly stegosaurus out of his son’s hands, muttering ‘You’re not seven anymore and it’s not very Christmassy, is it?’

‘Daaaad,’ objects our six-footer, grabbing onto his treasure for dear life, ‘this always goes on the tree. It wouldn’t be Christmas without it!’

‘That’s right, dad,’ says a muffled voice. The Nearly Beloved springs back in shock, scanning the room for the spirit of Christmas past. But it’s only Darling Daughter, not a Dickensian ghost.

Tier-3 restrictions means she can’t be here in person of course – at least not until the day when the country will be given their long-awaited get-out-of-jail cards. But as a lover of all things festive and a seasoned decorator of a minimum of three trees each December, she’s determined not to miss out on her quota. So, she has logged on to join in the fun over Skype. I position the screen carefully so she can monitor her father and report any transgressions, such as his earlier shoe-shuffling of Elvis-Santa under the sofa.

As Grunting Teen and I randomly hang bells and angels on branches then haphazardly swamp the tree in multi-coloured spangle, Darling Daughter alerts us to covert operations.

‘Daaad,’ she warns, ‘stop taking off the decorations as soon as mum puts them on. What’s wrong with you?’

‘What’s wrong with your mother, you mean,’ he replies with yet another eye-roll. ‘What she’s doing makes no sense. The lights are all bunched up at the bottom. The tinsel is a complete disaster. And any normal person knows you should grade baubles with small at the top and large towards the base. It complements the shape of the tree that took me so long to trim into submission.’

Ignoring him, I place a huge papier-mache elf on the second highest branch and step back to marvel at the masterpiece. ‘Oh God,’ mutters the Nearly-Beloved, covering his eyes. ‘Not that abomination. I thought I’d consigned it to the bin last year.’

‘You did,’ I smile, ‘but I retrieved it just in time.’ With a lump rising in my throat, I try to explain. ‘I know it’s a bit tatty but I just love it. Don’t you remember the kids begging us to buy it?’

‘No,’ he replies, ‘what I do remember is refusing to buy it.’

‘Oh, that’s right,’ laughs Darling Daughter, ‘we persuaded mum to go back and get it. You can’t beat a good elf.’ And she oohs and aahs in happy recollection as I parade a chipped glass swan, threadbare owl and slightly unravelled silver stocking in front of the screen for her approval.

After the bag is finally emptied and Grunting Teen has lifted me up to place the star on the top, we stand back to admire our handiwork.

Darling Daughter signs off with an appreciative ‘I can’t wait until the 25th. It looks great.’

But the Nearly-Beloved sighs. ‘It looks like someone’s thrown up on it.’ Then he sighs some more as I stick shooting stars, sleighs and snowflakes onto the window panes and wind up the dancing turkey and laughing penguin.

Exhausted by all the effort, Grunting Teen retires to his PS4 whilst I head off to the kitchen to make a cuppa. On my return, the Nearly-Beloved springs to my aid, looking rather shifty. ‘Have you been messing with the tree?’ I ask, noting that the lights seem somehow more uniform and the tinsel straighter, whilst the swan and owl have migrated north and the elf is now hiding under the lower branches.

We eye each other up for a moment, then nod a silent truce as I retrieve Elvis-Santa and turn him on full blast.

As usual it’s been a real family collaboration.

It’s Christmas card season. This week there’s been a steady trickle of festive cheer landing on my doormat. Time to get the magnifying glass out and hone the detective skills in an attempt to decipher signatures written in hieroglyphics and work out who the mysterious ‘Bren and John’ might be.

The Nearly-Beloved denies all knowledge of them. ‘It’s from a couple,’ he says with the astuteness of Hercule Poirot, ‘so it’ll be one of your friends. Blokes never send cards if they can help it. And certainly not ones with cute birds on them, unless they’ve got a Santa swag bag and…’ – he grins in anticipation of his cracker joke punchline – ‘are ‘robin’ a bank.’

In my family a male reluctance for correspondence is certainly true and for years I was conned into writing all greetings to my in-laws in the false belief that my other half was dyslexic rather than just plain lazy. As for Grunting Teen, when I ask if he needs any cards to send, he looks at me in bewilderment. ‘Write? With a pen? Then post it? Are you living in the Stone Age? I’ll just send a meme round on Insta.’

Maybe this is the future now. Virtual messaging. E-cards. But for me there’s a certain thrill about opening a hand-written envelope and wondering what you’re going to find inside. I mean, let’s face it, all cards are not equal.

There’s the carefully chosen, individualised card with its heart-felt message and expensive packaging. This is usually reserved for the newly-in-love, although sometimes reappears many married-years later if it’s been discounted on Christmas Eve at the local garage.

Then there’s the ubiquitous charity box sets, favoured by the majority. These cards spread the love both to the receiver and those in need. In general, it’s best to stick with local or well-known charities to avoid eyebrows being raised at less conventional good causes, like my maiden aunt’s ‘retired jockeys’ fund’. And the rule of thumb is to err on the side of simplicity rather than sequins and sparkles, unless you are aged seven and love glitter glue.

Gone are the days when I used to force the children to make home-made disasters or try and improve their literacy by writing ‘Merry Christmas’ to everyone in the class. But the bumper pack of 200 cards from Poundland 2011, gathering dust at the back of the kitchen cupboard, still comes to the rescue when the neighbour you’d completely forgotten about sneaks a last-minute yo-ho-ho to you on the day itself.

Others are better prepared. Their cards arrive promptly. Elderly relatives with time on their hands have sorted out their lists well in advance, saving a fortune by posting everything in November. Not for them the bank loan to fork out for a sheet of eye-wateringly expensive first-class stamps or the realisation they’ve missed the overseas deadline by weeks. They’ve already roped in the Scouts for local post, whilst I’m reduced to bribing Grunting Teen to do the neighbourhood rounds.

And of course, what you write is as important as the card itself. It can be the chance to catch up on a year’s worth of news from those ‘friends from the past’ that you no longer have anything in common with. At least, in that respect, Covid has been a leveller, making the smug round-robin briefings not so smug. When I learn of the safari to Namibia cancelled, cocktails at the Shard postponed and the 2^nd home in Portugal unvisited, for once I feel I’ve done well. My pandemic year has still managed a weekend break in Scarbs, drinks down the Broadfield and a flying visit to my mum-in-law in Wales. 

But whatever the contents, it’s just nice to be remembered. A thoughtful message can warm the heart and even just a traditional greeting and a signed name show the receiver they’re not alone or abandoned. In this year of enforced distance, a Christmas card is like a hug. Whether displayed on your mantelpiece or hung on ribbons down your walls, it’s like being surrounded by friends who’ve taken the time and effort to think of you. Who knows, you might even experience an ‘aha’ moment on Christmas Day when you realise that ‘Brian and Jean’ hadn’t forgotten you after all.

I/t’s Christmaaaaaaas!  Well at least for me it is. And for a significant number of the population too, it seems.

I’ve held off as long as I can in deference to my ‘bah humbug’ husband. He froths at the mouth if anything festive greets him before the day itself. And woe betide any attempt to steer him towards present buying before Christmas Eve and his last-minute shopping blitz at the local petrol station.

In fact, he was delighted by the recent lockdown as he didn’t have to be assaulted by a winter wonderland of tinsel and snowflakes in the shops. But he did stomp through the door the other day, raging and pointing at the neighbour’s window. ‘They’ve put their tree up already’, he stormed. ‘In November!’

And whilst normally I share his attitude that an out-of-season Saint Nicholas is not to be encouraged, I am secretly delighted the elves have been working their magic early this year and bringing us some much-needed joy.

Local radio has already canvassed its listeners to jump-start yo-ho-ho jingles. So, for the last few weeks, as soon as Grunting Teen and his Grinch father leave the house, I’ve been jingle-bell-rocking around the kitchen in my Santa hat and reindeer sunglasses. And it appears that my daily wailing of ‘All I want for Christmas is you’ has finally paid off with the announcement of a five-day festive amnesty.

I had resigned myself to a not-so-merry turkey dinner in our lockdown trio but, if all goes well, at least two more family members will be able to pull a cracker with me. Grunting Teen, whilst keen to see his sister in person, suddenly seems concerned that I stock up on supplies since there’ll now be competition for the pigs-in-blanket and tins of chocolates.

As for other, more vulnerable loved ones, the jury’s still out on what’s best to do. We all yearn to see our relatives. It’s just we have to think carefully of what we want to give them – a much-needed visit or the gift of covid… Maybe the British public are not quite as gung-ho as we’re led to believe. Maybe, judging by the premature queues at the post office, they’re concentrating on spreading the love, not just over one day, but over twenty-five.

For 2020 is the year that the advent calendar has come into its own. It certainly has for me. If face-to-face meet-ups are increasingly difficult to achieve because of our doors being closed, then at least we can open some windows and bring a breath of fresh surprise into our lives. Will today’s highlight be a sprig of holly, a red-breasted robin or the prized, beaming snowman?

Grunting Teen may well roll his eyes and tell me I’m being ‘lame’ but the moment he’s hoovered up his second bowl of cornflakes, then he’s rushing to open his own number 3 and demolish the chocolate wreath inside.

As for canny marketeers, they’ve obviously cottoned on to our craving for a daily dose of pleasure to counter this year’s sombre mood. A new era of advent calendars has hit the high street. Nativity pictures and confectionery are no longer enough to lift us out of pandemic pessimism. But give us miniature beauty products, handcrafted marshmallows and artisan teas and the world seems a brighter place full of mind-teasing puzzles and pocket-sized perfumes. Yes, everyday can be Christmas now.

But something’s not quite right.

I’ve done my online orders and all that’s called for is to click and collect once local shops have re-opened. But why then is there no spring in my stocking, no brandy on my pudding? For as much as I hate having to brave the usual madding hordes in Reindeer-retail-land, I miss the bustle and excitement of browsing the shelves in search of that ideal gift for that special someone.

Returning home, with my Santa-sack over my shoulder, the boys are caught unawares.

‘What? You’ve been gift-shopping. It’s not Christmas Eve yet, is it?’ panics the Nearly-Beloved, hurriedly checking the closing times of the nearest garage.

‘Mum, why haven’t you got any snacks in these bags? And why have you bought baby books, jigsaws for little kids and make-up sets for tweenagers?’ asks Grunting Teen in confusion.

What neither of them realise is that the ‘Cash for Kids Mission Christmas’ is on, making sure that no child in South Yorkshire goes without a present from Santa. You can donate online or, like me, enjoy a nostalgic wander through toy-heaven before handing in your stocking fillers at the nearest drop-off point. Because, after all, this is the true spirit of Christmaaaaaaas!

Since the latest restrictions, I’ve got a new occupation. I’ve become a ‘people-walker’. This entails meeting an assigned non-household-member at a pre-arranged spot and participating in exercise and conversation.

To be honest, the exercise is minimal and mostly involves some feet-stomping and a fair amount of arm-waving and hand-rubbing. As long as it staves off the cold seeping through my bones then it’s bearable. At least it gives me a chance for a chat and catch-up with some fellow lockdownees.

The take-up for walks is quite impressive and I’ve already had to create a waiting list so that everyone gets a fair chance. But, of course, I have to prioritise my regulars. Darling Daughter is my favoured client and has a lunchtime slot where I hop in the car and drive across the city to deliver her a virtual hug and a lovingly prepared sandwich. As we shiver the length of Hillsborough park, we bemoan the men in our life and discuss the latest paso doble on Strictly.

I can’t go for long without seeing my besties either. So, we have a rota system, swapping walking partners daily to make sure we all stay in the loop with each other’s news. Not that there’s much to report about this Groundhog Day we’re currently stuck in. On this coronacoaster there are times when ‘people-walking’ seems like too much of an effort and that’s when I find myself ‘being walked’ instead. All it takes, when you’re feeling down, is a friendly face to pull you back up, reminding you to laugh at life’s absurdities.

Luckily, ‘people-walking’ is a flexible operation, especially for the furloughed, who can fit into any daytime slot. The still-working are trickier to accommodate. Pre-9am my brain hasn’t yet started functioning and I find myself just nodding and smiling sympathetically. But, on the plus side, I’ve now gained the reputation of being a good listener…

Post-5pm I’m all lit-up but unfortunately my sunny disposition goes unseen as we stumble along woodland paths in the dark, fumbling our way to safety with the torches on our mobiles. Better to march past the shops, making wish lists, in the hope that, come December, we’ll be able to send some Christmas cheer local traders’ way instead of via Amazon.

And unlike normal walking where beautiful countryside and spectacular views are of prime importance, ‘people-walking’ isn’t concerned with the surroundings. It’s not nature we’re missing but the freedom to meet with those we love.

In fact, ‘people-walking’ seems to be the latest trend. Go to any open space and you will find it littered with ‘walking-pairs.’ You can tell immediately they’re not home-sharers by the fact they seem pleased to see each other and are talking animatedly across the 2-metre gap. And although they’re ‘getting exercise’ they’re definitely not ‘exercising’ as their focus is on talking rather than walking.

Neither does it matter what the weather is like. When the rain is falling, the woods are full of co-walkers sheltering under the branches and, in the dense fog, high up on the hills, happy twosomes narrowly miss bumping into each other. Then, on the rare occasions when the sun breaks through the clouds, friendship-duos spring up everywhere as far as the eye can see.

Whatever the temperature, park cafes are doing a roaring trade in take-away goodies. Darling Daughter tactfully suggests buying lunch there – a change from my usual corned-beef fillings…

The strange thing, though, is that most of the pairings are female. The masculine lockdown psyche seems to be pining for competition rather than conversation. Men don’t appear to enjoy ‘being walked’. Instead they opt for a rather uncompanionable front-wheel-to-back-bumper cycle ride or a jog with the lead runner shouting over-the-shoulder encouragement to the lesser athlete trailing behind. Sometimes it’s lone males who can be spotted, punching the air, then punching in their scores on their Strava dashboard.

The Nearly-Beloved rolls his eyes at my invitation for a walk, preferring to fall through the door red-faced and panting. But he’s beaten his last week’s record, so at least he can die victorious now. Grunting Teen is a different matter though. He’s struggling without his stress-busting climbing so surprisingly agrees to accompany me for a jump over the rocks on the Sheffield-side of the Peaks.

It turns out that walking-talking is quite therapeutic too. He doesn’t have to make eye-contact with me, so it’s much easier to off-load his worries about GCSEs and his lack of preparedness to take them. Just as well he clambers out of earshot to the top of a boulder as I’m hinting that the PS4, not only the pandemic, may be partly to blame for his mock results. But I don’t want to bring his mood down, after all there’s enough going on in the world to do that already. Just then he loses his footing, executing a paso doble that would win a judges’ standing ovation, and ends up in a peaty pool.

All thoughts of exams immediately leave his head as he re-emerges black and dripping like a moorland bog monster. Thank goodness I have my camera and he still has his sense of humour. He’s lost his teenage cool but at least he’s given his mum a good laugh. Yes, ‘people-walking’ is definitely to be recommended.