Monday
It’s here, it’s here, it’s finally here! Seasonal weather has arrived. All miserable memories of summer can finally be banished as we winter people sink gladly, at last, beneath the store of blankets and throws hoarded against this glorious day.
Do summer people feel this joy? Maybe in degree, but in form? This great suffusion of comfort, this sense of safety, of cosiness and – in some oblique, ineffable way – completion? Or is summer joy different? Where we feel an ironically cold dread rise within us as the first prickle of sweat beads our brows, do you feel an expansion of the soul? A sense of possibility and adventure? Other things we would run far, if not, I suspect, awfully fast, to avoid?
Is the world kept in balance by such remarkable cleavings in twain (see also: fancy dress parties, board games, and the Oxford comma) of its apparently homogeneous population? Or is it a sign that we will always be riven by difference and hostility as one side gazes across the impasse at the other, incredulity and incomprehension mutating inexorably into hatred and rage? Please, rouse me from my blanket den with answers in the spring.
Tuesday
On the downside, this time of year is also party season. Even for shut-ins like myself, efforts must be made. And somewhere in this house, buried – naturellement – under a year’s detritus, is my party outfit. Well, party skirt. Well, a skirt. That I wear for parties when jeans just won’t do. So, usually a party. Maybe two. Never three.
Still, it must be found. Because the only thing worse than wearing the party skirt you have worn to a least one party (sometimes two, never three) every year for the last 10 years is having to buy another one. That means an additional Going Out. And trying things on, which counts at least double. It is a dreadful state of affairs and online shopping is only useful if you are au fait enough with shops and brands to know what size you are, where and what you will look least like dog sick in were you to buy from them. I do not know what size I am in any shop and finding out would probably kill me. And anyway, I do know I look like dog sick in everything. Yes, including my current skirt. But everyone’s seen me look like dog sick in it and it’s comfortable. So the domestic search continues.
Wednesday
OMG – it’s true what they say: live long enough and even a supermodel who bestrode the cultural offerings of your youth like a lividly beautiful colossus will become relatable in the end. The 80s icon Linda Evangelista stated in a profile this week that she is quite happy being single. She is not dating because she “doesn’t want to hear someone breathing”.
Isn’t that the greatest thing, the greatest comfort you’ve ever heard? To know that it doesn’t matter what you look like, what gifts you have been granted by the gods, how vast the pool of potential soulmates you swim in – all relationships begin with hearts, flowers, butterflies, roseate visions of the beloved … and end with one party asking the other: “Do you really have to breathe like that?” And, ultimately, “Do you really have to breathe like that?” Sometimes you run that gamut in a week, sometimes you can stretch it out for decades. But it’s wonderful to know that in the end, even the most beautiful, privileged people want each other dead.
Thursday
Speaking of dead – we’re still trying to work out what to do for Christmas now that Dad has shuffled (almost literally) off this mortal coil. He did all the cooking, for a start. And not just the cooking but the thinking, planning and buying for it all too – Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, Boxing Day were all meticulously provided for. We would help – chop and peel things, maybe, and wash up after the meals – but the vast, vast bulk of the prep, the real labour, he did himself.
Now we – Mum, my sister, me – are adrift. Mum burns water, and doesn’t really see the point of eating anyway (I think she runs on some sort of fuel injection system, not sure) so she’s no help. My sister can’t get here till the last minute. And, as they will both tell you – oftentimes in chorus – I’m a known bellend who can’t be relied upon for anything beyond reciting the titles of all 21 Famous Five adventures in the correct order.
So a sparer Christmas is in prospect. Crisps. Toast. More crisps. The Quality Street tin for pudding. Drink. Lots and lots of drink. I don’t mind. I think it’s an excellent tribute to the man. I like having a concrete demonstration of his absence. “Look!” I shall say, raising one of several glasses to the heavens and gesturing too wildly for its overfilled form at the cold oven and the empty table. “Look how bollocks everything is without you! See how much better things were before?!” What a comfort it will be.
Friday
I had to go for an emergency appointment to the optician because I woke up and my eye was … funny. I couldn’t see properly. I was in a state of pure and rigid dread until, two hours and £85 later, I was assured it was a posterior vitreous detachment, which would resolve on its own and was nothing to worry about unless I had two weeks of bungee jumping planned, which I almost never have. I was grateful for my steady income, otherwise I’d have been hours and hours waiting in Moorfields, missing a day of work.
Anyway. I felt like I’d been given a kick up the arse by God or those fates or some cosmic force or other just at the start of the season of goodwill, so once the eyedrops had worn off and I could read my sort code and account number again, I stepped up my monthly donations to the Trussell Trust and thanked whatever powers that be for the good fortune of my relative fortune.
