A canal in Shropshire has disappeared into a sinkhole, while Cornwall Wildlife Trust reports that 13 times as many octopuses as usual – about 233,000 – were caught in UK waters this year. These freakish events may be a sign, though of what remains unclear. Sinkholes are holes that appear from nowhere, making nowhere manifest; they can happen anywhere, anytime, undermining our sense of safety. Octopuses, with their boneless, eight-legged, multi-brained anatomy, seem to be mustering for an invasion.
Despite doing twice as much work daily in the run-up to Christmas, I still have no free time. A friend explained that this is the essence of adult life: time has no meaning, existence is just one thing after another. Embrace it and move on – or rather, don't, because this is life now.
On the train to Devon for Christmas with my sister, my mother and I discuss my character flaws. I try to distinguish between my moral weaknesses and simply being a different person from her. Fortunately, I am willing to eat in public, and my mother is unaware that alcohol comes in containers other than large green gin bottles, so I enjoy cocktails in cans without her knowledge.
My sister orchestrated a perfect Christmas: great food, great presents, and a reminder to put out my son's stocking. My husband received the correct edition of the Dorset Pevsner he wanted, and my mother happily sorted a basket of odd socks all afternoon while refusing to let her grandson look up names from White Christmas on Google. We ate, napped, listened to the King's speech, walked the dog, and agreed to play a board game but didn't. Strong recommend, especially the sock sorting.
In the Devon countryside, the traditional Boxing Day sales trip was not possible. But the liberation of Christmas – when the pressure to be festive finally lifts – is akin to the relief of sex or massages ending. The best part of Christmas is when it stops.
