Monday
This is, slightly unmissably, Christmas Day. Our first one without Dad (although he did, as was his wont, break us into the idea as gently as he could by being in hospital for the last one), which overall is not to be recommended. Who among us hasn’t kicked ourselves on such supposedly joyous occasions for forgetting to make our loved ones promise never to die? We’re idiots. Idiots!
Still, apart from that, it was a good day. I got the traditional gifts from my mother (cleaning spray, sponges, new knickers, lasting power of attorney), received with surprise and joy the Uniqlo cardigan in the size and colour I had specified to my husband in late October, ate my own body weight in roast chicken and bread sauce, and then we all tidied everything away so that by 4 o’clock my mother could look round with satisfaction and make her annual delighted announcement that it looked like Christmas had never been.
I did not, however, get to curl up thereafter with a new book because Dad was the only person who ever bought me books. I had to talk to people instead. Extract those promises now, people, that’s all I’m saying. Extract those promises now.
Tuesday
The other great mistake that was made this year was to give Mum a smartphone for Christmas. Which means that on Boxing Day we have to teach Mum to use the smartphone we gave her for Christmas.
You know that scene in Blackadder where Edmund is trying to teach Baldrick to add two beans and then two more beans (“What do I have?” “Some beans.” “Baldrick, the ape creatures of the Indus have mastered this.”)? It looks like a quants’ convention compared with this.
We take it in turns. As soon as someone starts bleeding from the ears, the next person steps up. My 12-year-old son proves to be the best teacher – maybe because he’s sober and still has the optimism of youth – and by the end of the day, she is able to send WhatsApp messages. Which is when we realise we’ve enabled her to send us WhatsApp messages. That sobers us up pretty fast.
Wednesday
Festive season it may be but of course the vital work of our tireless government never ceases, and so the news greets us this morning that wine can now be sold in pint bottles. No longer will we suffer the indignity of having to pour out our libations from 750ml, 500ml or 375ml bottles. Now it will be 570ml vessels all the way, baby!
Except, of course, it won’t. The wine bottling industry is unlikely to stop in its oeno-tracks and start a new production line for the two people in the UK who give a mouse-sized shit about this new “freedom” and indulge Mr and Mrs Gammon in their imperial dreams. It means nothing. It means less than nothing. It means so much less than nothing that you can feel your eyes collapse as you read about it.
From the right to live and work freely in or retire to any one of 29 nations, sharing of intelligence, medical research data and a seat at the geopolitical table to trumpeting the theoretical ability to quaff liquid in slightly different increments from Johnny Foreigner. From a promised extra £350m a week to play with after leaving the European Union to this. Well done, England, my – alas – England.
Thursday
In what is likely to amount, in these straitened times, to the good news story of the year, Blackpool Tower was discovered today not to be on fire.
No, we haven’t quite reached the stage of desperately pointing to things that are not actually in the throes of visible and irrevocable destruction as a sign that it is worth carrying on (“Look! A bridge not burning! Look! A car not on fire either! Let me show you too this blanket, table and cat firmly not combusting!”) – though give 2024 time. It was in fact thought that the top of Blackpool Tower was quite firmly in the grip of a conflagration – bright flames could be seen dancing and waving in the wind and firefighters hastily converged on the scene.
Fortunately, it was revealed that what had looked like a raging inferno from below was in fact a lot of orange netting surrounding renovation work that had come loose, and that probably what was needed was someone handy with a staple gun rather than the assembled might of Lancashire’s fire and rescue service.
Friday
Nearly New Year’s Eve! I hope your preparations for a big night out are well under way! Ha ha ha ha. I jest, of course! Imagine. Imagine going out after all we’ve just been through. 2023! Christmas! All the lesser Quality Street because someone siphoned off the orange creams before you got there! Is there anyone who actually still goes out? Surely everyone over 30 is too tired and no one under 30 can afford it.
Still, the other great tradition – making resolutions – is free, so I presume you all have a variety of self-improving goals and ways to achieve them taking shape in your minds? Ha ha ha ha. I jest, of course! Imagine having the strength, the spirit, the wherewithal for any of that. Or maybe young people still do. I wouldn’t know. My resolutions for 2024 look roughly like this: get through 2024. Have a shower occasionally. Collect more photos off the internet of cats in beds. They help. Try to appreciate the things that are not on fire. Try not to mutter that they will be, soon enough.
