Loneliness is an epidemic. It makes us ill, physically and mentally. It makes us age prematurely. It causes huge harm to the mental health of young people who often feel lonely at a time when they should be making the best of everything. And then there is Christmas, which is surely the biggest “trigger” for anyone whose life is not bloody well perfect. And, yes, I do take it personally: every poxy advert features nuclear families and hilarity about socks or something. I don’t live like this. I never have. Most of my friends don’t live like this (thank God). There are divided loyalties, exes, divorces, estranged relatives. There are the people who are bereaved. There are rows and disappointments because no one who is not some kind of fembot can live up to all these expectations.
A good few people I know are on the verge of homelessness or are, let’s say, peripatetic. Their livelihoods are precarious through no fault of their own. Everyday inequalities hit harder at this time of year than at any other. Rough sleepers get in the way of shopping for those all-important stocking fillers.
Maybe I am resentful because my childhood Christmases were not happy, but it’s more than that. I haven’t had or wanted a traditional family life, so why am I expected to conjure one up for this one day? What and who is it for? This re-enactment of a Victorian fantasy was never mine. Why are we compelled to repeat what makes us miserable?
I can’t make right what isn’t right. Everyone says it’s for the children. But it’s also for the adults who never feel good enough for their children. I know there are people out there who think it’s the business of the Guardian to ruin every little pleasure as part of some PC plot against nice things. But I have always felt this way about the festive season, and as for Christmas music … well, I just listen to Nico singing Jackson Browne’s These Days on repeat: “Please don’t confront me with my failures / I had not forgotten them.”
Meat-free mince pie, anyone?
