The year was 2020 and Christmas itself hung in the balance. We had spent the last nine months in and out of Covid lockdowns. Initially, we had reacted with total diligence, united in fear and grief. But then we entered into an interminable hokey-cokey of being allowed out, then back in, then a bit out, then a bit in again. Obligatory scotch eggs was a particularly low point. By winter, the rules had become confusing and often felt unfollowable.
Nevertheless, hope prevailed. We hadn’t seen our extended families for so long and the government promised that Christmas would not be cancelled. Christmas always feels a bit “high stakes”, even in normal times, but this one had been dialled up to 11. The extended absences from family meant we missed them all to bits. Also, my son was five – a peak age for enjoying yuletide business. I co-parent with my son’s dad (my ex) and, as luck would have it, it was my turn to have my son on Christmas Day. We were going to stay with my parents in Dorset and it felt like it had to be a good one.
