Christmas has an annoying tendency to kick off far too early these days, but I can never give into it until after my son’s birthday on 23 November. This year he turned 18, which feels like a milestone for both of us. He can now legally be served in a pub and go to prison, and I theoretically have a man about the house again. Even though, unfortunately, he seems to have taken after his father in his complete inability to perform any of the traditional male roles, such as assembling flat-packed furniture or not setting fire to the toaster. Still, I feel a sense of achievement at having managed to keep a whole human alive into adulthood.
My other adult human is at university in Manchester. A short train ride away – or an eight-hour round trip by car, which, thanks to Mick Lynch, I shall be forced to undertake this Christmas. She spends her life waiting for news of rail strikes so she can book tickets home – no point otherwise, as it’s impossible to get the money back. As soon as Lynch announced the latest round – 13-17 December, then 24-27 December, and finally 3-7 January, expertly timed to ruin everyone’s Christmas travel plans – my daughter jumped straight on to the train app, only to discover everything either side of those dates had already sold out. Same with the coach, and flights are wildly expensive. She can’t even post herself home, either, since Royal Mail is on strike too. Mum’s Uber it is, then, along, no doubt, with half the country. It’ll be gridlock. So much for the left’s commitment to net zero.
Assuming we all make it back in one piece, it’s going to be an unusual Christmas this year for the simple reason that one very important element will be missing: Her Majesty the Queen. This would have been her 70th Christmas on the throne – although not her 70th Christmas message: there was none in 1969, since that year saw the release of the documentary The Royal Family. It’s hard to imagine that postprandial Christmas Day fug of sherry, mince pies and fermenting Brussels sprouts without those cut-glass vowels and twinkly blue eyes. At a Remembrance Day service, I sang ‘God Save the King’ for the first time, and it made me want to cry. No offence to our new King, of course, whose debut speech will, I’m sure, be wonderful; just one misses her and it’s moments like these that really bring it home.
On Boxing Day I shall be taking the adult humans to visit their grandparents in Italy. Three days, which is the maximum our family can manage without descending into physical violence. My father has not been well, a notion that after seven decades of uninterrupted rude health he is having some trouble coming to terms with. He is not, it transpires, a well-behaved, compliant or even especially grateful patient.
Despite my father’s irascible disposition, the Italian healthcare system has proven itself exemplary. A month in intensive care, six weeks in a clinic and three days a week in rehabilitation. All free, gratis and for nothing. Having lived abroad for almost 50 years, he now talks fondly of returning to the UK. At first, I thought it was all the drugs they had him on but it turns out he actually means it. It pains me to say it, but why? The country he knew is gone. The NHS he knew is certainly gone. He’d be lucky to get a physiotherapy session once a month in the current circumstances. Nurses on strike, more than seven million cases on the waiting list. Countless dying from illnesses undiagnosed or untreated. For example, I emailed my GP (one doesn’t ever actually see a doctor any more) in the summer about a mole that was bothering me. Having sent across a picture (the ultimate in self-diagnosis, take a snap on your iPhone – surely there must be an app for that?), she referred me to a dermatologist for further exploration. Last week the appointment finally came through from the hospital: September 2024. One doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Let’s hope it’s not cancerous, hey?
But it’s not all doom, gloom and rampant public sector incompetence. There’s always air fryers and Simon Sebag Montefiore’s new book, The World: A Family History. If you’re stuck for Christmas presents, I can highly recommend both. The air fryer has been the success story of 2022. Mine has already saved me a small fortune in energy costs, and it’s so simple to use even the newly adult human can manage it. As for Sebag’s book, it’s only just been published but it too deserves to be a roaring bestseller. Not only is it extremely pretty to look at (something that cannot be said of an air fryer) and therefore eminently present-y, it’s also really good. Think Succession meets Game of Thrones, history told through dynasty and intrigue and written with wit, insight and more than the odd dash of scandal. Definitely a three mince-pie read. Maybe five.
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