End-of-year writing compels me as a journalist to automatically round-up or summarise 2022, preferably in listicle format. If I could draw a graph on this page, it would be a sharp line of highs and ebbing lows, as the two words that have recurrently punctuated this first full post-Covid year of 2022 are ‘quiet’ and ‘chaos’. Or ‘decadence’ and ‘decay’ — one extreme tag-teaming the other.
Rewind to the beginning of the year and we were still witnessing the quiet of the city hammered by home-working, as evidenced by empty Prets. Then a few months down the line came the full throttle of an all-out revenge summer, accompanied by piles of stinking suitcases, sky-high travel costs and booked-out hotels. London thronged with Platty Jubes crowds, flags and cakes, and then revelry was brought to a standstill after the death of Her Majesty — and somehow this disparate country was supposed to be united in mourning. Let’s not even get started on the chaos of politics, at home and abroad, descending into farce and spoof. Except it’s a power struggle of elites, which is wrecking people’s lives and plunging us into a new reality of the city having to open up ‘warm banks’. All is quiet in this Dickensian Christmas as I passed by a local church offering shelter, coffee and rich tea biscuits.
In the fashion realm, we live for extremes and superlatives. Highs and lows are nothing new except I think in the past few weeks, the lows have plunged deeper than expected with Balenciaga’s spectacular fall from grace — from being hailed for creative genius with its irony and social commentary embedded into lucrative product, to somehow winding up on QAnon’s crusade shitlist. Watch Sky Art’s excellent Kingdom of Dreams docuseries and you’ll see how history will surely repeat itself as commerce will always triumph over creativity.
On a personal level, the chaos of unexpectedly falling pregnant ran alongside a work year that was defined by a ‘the show must go on’ mentality after two and a half years of standing still. I had worked up until the very last moment, jostling with the crowds at Raf Simons’ rave slash show (incidentally, that marked the final chapter for Simons’ eponymous label) before giving birth in a rather unceremonious way, sandwiched between a pizza lunch and a curry dinner. Then came the quiet of these early newborn months. Not so much in volume in the house — the cries are sadly bordering on the dreaded colic variety. But in the nervy, muted humdrum of gingerly walking to the coffee shop half a mile away with the pram, then scurrying back lest he wakes, muffling the sounds with boobs and white noise. Even weekends away are hush-hush, as we took the quiet train to sleepy late autumn Cornwall when restaurants and shops are done for the season.
And now the quiet of Christmas beckons — a time of year that I luxuriate in. I used to be envious of people’s epic journeys to wherever home was — on arduous drives up motorways and chaotic LNER trains, laden with boujie gifts and exciting tales of the Big Smoke. Meanwhile, I just have to get on the Northern line and shuffle back home to family in Finchley, where quiet comes in soothing bowlfuls of Chinese soup and the rustle of Ferrero Rocher wrappers. Bring on these quiet times because, no doubt, 2023 will most likely be a zig-zagging graph line. Enjoy this momentary merriness.
