A few weeks ago, I messaged a friend: “It would be nice to catch up before the year is out.”
“Lunch next Sunday?” came the reply. “But I can stay for only 90 minutes.” Ninety minutes. The duration of an unfulfilling football match with no injuries, substitutions or excitement. Fitting, really.
Normally, I’d consider such an offer insulting. I’d figure she mustn’t like my company, or care how I’m doing. “I could be getting a divorce!” I’d think, despite not being married. “I could have really big, painful things I need to share.” Eventually, I’d be so outraged by all the things that could be happening to me, but aren’t, that I’d cancel.
What can I say? I’m a feast-and-famine kind of friend, the flaky one with good intentions, saying yes to everything and bailing on all bar the most important engagements. For those, at least, I know to deliver: I am the first to arrive, the last to leave, the hanger of banners and gatherer of cups. Shooting off early? Those words are not in my vocabulary. Some know which side their bread is buttered; I know where my prosecco is poured. When my friends need me, I heed the call.
But the festive period is different. It means weeks of relentless, demanding socialising, where only the most disciplined and steely-eyed can meet all their obligations. So, to stop January turning into a grand tour of grovelling, of apology for missed December get-togethers and for choosing some over others, I have been tightly scheduling my attentions.
Apparently this is called “diary management”, and all the adults are doing it. Friend’s baby came early? I’ve got an hour! Cousin’s sudden engagement? I can give you 30 minutes! I may never get another invite, but at least it will make next year less busy.
