‘You can’t spend Christmas like that!” exclaimed friends and relatives when I revealed my plan to cycle around London on my own on Christmas Day. “I’ll be worried about you feeling lonely and depressed,” said one. “I really don’t think it’s a good idea.”
I understood. Usually, the idea of Christmas alone filled me with nightmarish images of isolation and despair. But I had recently lost both my parents. For the past 11 months, my brother and I had been in our parents’ house going through a lifetime of letters, books, clothes, pictures and precious possessions. I needed a break from it all. I wanted a day to explore, to dream, to be open to whatever crossed my path.
A few days before Christmas, I was in a taxi, chatting to the lovely driver. When I told him I was going to cycle around London on Christmas Day, he cried: “Me too! That’s what I always do.” I was amazed. So it’s a thing. We agreed to look out for each other and wave if our paths crossed.
So, on Christmas Day, armed with home-made mince pies and wearing a twinkling scarf of cheap battery-operated fairy lights (which broke after five minutes), I set out on my adventure. I whizzed about, owning the streets of London. It was fabulous. After about an hour, I stopped at a bench in Regent’s Park and started chatting to a Spanish woman who was taking photographs of the zoo. “This is where the wolves used to be before they were moved. You can still see them, though, in a scene in Withnail and I,” she told me excitedly. I knew the spot well, as it is where we used to pick conkers as children. She was meant to be in Madrid but had missed her flight the evening before. So her huge Spanish family were gathered in her mum’s tiny flat, while she walked around London with her camera.
Once she had got over the shock, she embraced the situation. Up to now, she said, every Christmas had been the same and they would probably be the same for years to come. That resonated with me. I had certainly had enough Christmases to get me through one alone. All those trees and stockings and presents and failed attempts to light the pudding. All the laughter and rows and forgotten brandy butter. All of it was so alive in me still, keeping me company. Sometimes a moment to pause and digest is a relief.
After surprising the Spanish woman with my mince pies (she asked for a second one), I ventured on. The streets were pretty empty on the whole, but in Piccadilly Circus there were crowds of people under the electronic billboards. As I got closer I spotted a tiny hot dog stand, operating at full steam. I bet the owner knew that, with most restaurants closed, people would suddenly be mad for hot dogs.
I cycled down Oxford Street and managed to arrive in front of a traffic camera at the time I had arranged with my friend Julian. He was watching the camera feed online and took a screenshot of me with my bike. Somehow, despite the plethora of media we have at hand, and despite being just a blurry blob in the image, it felt thrilling that we had connected via CCTV. And not on any day. This was Christmas Day.
I sailed down Park Lane and when I stumbled on the very Parisian-looking Shepherd Market I decided to ask a couple to take a photograph of me. They were extremely sweet and had just got engaged. But they were really hungry as they hadn’t managed to find a place to eat. So I offered them my mince pies and they were delighted. They told me how the man had hidden the ring in his jacket pocket, but when he got down on one knee, he realised he was wearing the wrong jacket. They used a bit of string from a clothes tag on a new jumper instead. And they showed me the precious piece of string that they were now trying to keep safe.
Then I went east. As I approached Shoreditch, it started raining so I pulled over. A man took shelter under the same canopy. He looked very sad. I wanted to say “Merry Christmas”, but it didn’t seem appropriate. I didn’t know why he was sad but given that I was going through intense grief myself, I knew it when I saw it. While we waited, I offered him a mince pie. I told him I had made them myself. He asked what brought me to do that and to cycle around, so I told him about my parents and my need to step away from traditions this year. He nodded knowingly and smiled. We ate our pies in silence and I felt touched by the warm presence of this gentle human being. I remembered when I first lost my mum and dad, how small interactions from strangers had a huge impact. Sometimes it seemed as if grief is a secret club that you join unwittingly and then people who can tell that you are a new member whisper little pieces of unforgettable advice or support into your ear.
As I meandered around Shoreditch I thought I saw my friend the taxi driver on his bike. I waved madly and he waved back – but it wasn’t him. However, I know that on any other day of the year, a total stranger cycling in London would never wave back at me. So I took this as a prompt to wave at any cyclist I passed as I made my way home, and they all waved merrily too.
By now it was starting to get dark and cold and I was happy to step into the warmth of home. I put the kettle on and it struck me that I hadn’t felt a single moment of solitude all day. I felt accompanied by the wonder of the world and all the many lives going on, a few of which I had the honour of glimpsing more closely. I realised there are many ways to spend Christmas Day and, by stepping away from the comfort of convention, I ended up somewhere unexpected and magical. I curled up on the sofa with my tea and looked at a photo of my parents. My grief felt different – lighter.
My perception of loss altered that day. I discovered that small cracks of possibility reside in the dense tapestry of grief and that a painful void can also become a place of freedom and adventure.
The album Lemon Psyche by Minko (Miranda May) is out in April
