It wasn’t me!

 When we were growing up, my parents would walk into a room and my sister would say, “It wasn’t me!” or “I didn’t do it!” None of us really knew where she got this guilt complex from because she would say it if she had done something, if I’d done something she didn’t want to be blamed for or even if nothing had happened. I can’t say that I was the perfect big sister who never exploited this trait (although I don’t remember doing so) or even that it was my manipulative self deflecting tactics that had caused it. 

However, it became a family joke and whenever anything happened we would all chorus, “It wasn’t me.”

 It helped enormously when we returned from a disastrous holiday in France and the kitchen ceiling had fallen in. 

The whole holiday had been cursed from beginning to end. The gite was rat filled with a temperamental Aga. The weather was the coldest, wettest August on record. The farmer didn’t take as much care over his animals as monsieur Cadeaux had the previous year. Getting to the front door was an obstacle course of cow pats. My mum had always been convinced that she would be murdered by a cow or a Frenchman, while she was camping, so she spent the week feeling very stressed. When the crab she had bought from the harbour walked off the kitchen table she started smoking again and when I caught her I was sworn to secrecy. Then we drove to Paris for a week and the accelerator cable snapped on the huge roundabouts in front the Arc de Triomphe. Dad managed a temporary fix by commandeering all of our shoelaces and hanging out of the window to pull them with the other hand on the steering wheel. That was the holiday that my sister discovered a passionate dislike for goats cheese. 

Although the trip had been an experience and not all bad, (first Big Mac, discovering that rats are quite good company at 3am when you read all night)  we were all glad to be home. The memory of telling each other that before we opened the door to the kitchen will stick with me forever. It was like one of those cinematic moments where life is perfect, a door swings open and everything has changed. The shower had been leaking for the whole two weeks we were away and brought the entire kitchen ceiling down. We stood. Looking. Silent. Mouths flapping like fish. Then a little voice said, “It wasn’t me!” and we all joined in like the film where they all pretend to be Spartacus. And we laughed.

The reason I was reminded of this story was because our Prime Minister was asked by a journalist on the BBC where he had spent the last ten days and his answer had strong ‘it wasn’t me!’ vibes.

There are several responses to that question that would have worked. My suggestions include:

Eating all the cheese

Avoiding the mother-in-law

At home 

Nowhere. It’s Christmas. No one goes anywhere at Christmas, it’s like a Zombie Apocalypse.

Fighting over the last purple chocolate in the Quality Street tin, pah, plastic box. Have you noticed how much smaller they are now?

Watching my small children opening their gifts from Santa and then playing with the box.

Visiting friends. We are very lucky to have a pal with a big house.

He said, “I’ve been, in, pah, I’ve been in this, ha, Country, pah ha, why do you think?”

However simple the question was, with numerous answers that wouldn’t have raised suspicions he went for the nothing-to-see-here answer, immediately letting us know that he probably wasn’t in the country (nothing wrong with taking a holiday) and that it was probably really dodgy. 

 

Nothing

This is the nothing period.

The waiting time.

Waiting is hard.

Short, fragile days, hoping that life will spring back soon. 

We have to wait, though. Forcing the buds open will kill them.

We pretend we aren’t waiting. We eat cheese, bring lights inside and have parties. We try to connect or withdraw. We think if we do something then the wintering will be over quicker.

Unfortunately, it takes as long as it takes, which is heartbreaking. 

We did it!

 Congratulations to everyone who survived Christmas. It’s not always an easy task, with so much pressure to be perfect, so much food and drink.

Those cooking dinner can now throw away their lists, delete the spreadsheets and prepare to live on the leftovers for the next week. 

Those who ate the food, will, hopefully be feeling more comfortable after a good night’s sleep and a morning elimination. The people who drank the drink might have a sore head but it will pass.

If you spent the day with people then your duty is done and you can re-charge your introvert batteries. If you spent the day alone then the world goes back to normal today (or as normal as it gets with a relatively new virus trying to overwhelm our fragile healthcare system)  and you can walk the streets without it feeling as though there has been a Zombie apocalypse.

If you are the Pope then you didn’t die, despite ITV news’ bulletin. I know this because of a long-running joke with a friend about him being the Pope (or running for Pope, I can’t remember now, as it’s been such a long time). Luckily, my friend hadn’t been subjected to the Long Suffering Husband’s Bailey’s measures and was able to check his pulse and let ITV know their story was wrong. 

It was fine though because the rest of the country was engaged in the annual Monopoly battle. 

However you spent the day yesterday, I hope it was as good as it could be but if it wasn’t then it’s important to remember that it is only one day and if you are reading this then you survived it.

Our family, not only survived but had a lot of laughs on the way and are now heading into my favourite day of the year.

Cheese and Wine or Darts and Beer

 There are many things I can’t forgive this government for but demonising cheese is the worst.

The photo of staff in the Downing Street garden on the 15th of May 2020 may be the final nail in the Boris-can-no-longer-be-Prime-Minister-coffin. They may not have to release the pictures of him playing naked twister after the grouse shoot at Chequers with Lord and Lady Squaffy-Waffly after all. Thank goodness!

People have looked at the photo and remembered that if they were allowed to go into work (and work hard) they weren’t socialising after their shift. Teachers are remembering that their staff rooms were closed and hospital staff don’t remember anything but working and sleeping. Those who were working from home (in isolation) are wondering what exactly government do that couldn’t happen on Zoom. 

The picture is complicated by the fact that there’s a woman with a baby with pointed ears or a dog in her lap at a business meeting and the cheese and wine on the table. 

I like cheese. Cheese is not the enemy but we live in a polar world. Pick a side. You are a cheese and wine person or a darts and beer person. 

Once upon a time the darts and beer people loved Boris. Bizarrely, they saw him as one of them; a man of the people, beer belly, glass in hand, resisting any physical exercise that isn’t getting younger women pregnant. They’d forgotten that he is in fact a cheese and wine for breakfast kind of guy. Champagne and truffles for lunch and grouse shooting and naked Twister for tea.

There was a televised darts match from AllyPally last night. The Long Suffering Husband was watching. 

Raymond Van Barnveld stepped up to the oche. His gut straining on his Lycra sports top. The camera flashed to a young woman who the announcer introduced as his girlfriend/ manager ‘Bendy Cock’ and the crowd went wild with excitement. The Barney Army started to sing and by the final dart were in full voice.

They were so full of beer and so cross about the cheese that they were singing, “Stand up if you hate Boris!”

It got ruder than that after Mr Bendy Cock won but the message was clear. Boris Johnson’s position as Prime Minister is untenable. I predict that the cheese is the final straw.

Christmas Redemption

 Christmas, pre the Victorians, was about welcoming light into the home and desperately praying that things would start to grow again. These days, we have absolutely no idea how cold life was. Heating is better, clothing is better and the weather is better. Making is through the winter is expected, rather than a luck something to be hoped for and celebrated.

The industrial revolution changed that. It allowed people to think about Christmas in a different way. Many people had spare money and could focus on things other than their own survival.  New workhouses were built to look after the poor, elderly and infirm. The people of our town were proud of ours, in writings, they boasted about how old men had their own room and freedom to go out, while still being cared for. Campaigners saw an opportunity to even out some of the inequity.

Charles Dickens, not only changed how we thought about workhouses but he also changed the Christmas story with his Christmas Carol. It’s a book I re-read every year but this year it has a resonance that is slightly uncomfortable. Maybe it’s because inequality is so obvious at the moment or because the people in power are showing absolutely no desire to change their ways. 

The thought of not making it through the winter persisted through the Victorian era and Christmas cards show just how much they thought about it. 

There were also lots of cards with the theme of eating children. Times were hard!

But Dickens gave us an enduring redemptive Christmas story; a tradition that’s continued. A Wonderful Life, Miracle on 34th Street, even Home Alone all carry strong themes of redemption. Christmas is a time to say sorry and change your ways. Christians will ague that redemption is in the bible but I think it too Dickens to make it a Christmas theme. 

Last Train to Christmas, on Sky, is supposed to be the new Christmas classic. However, I was really disappointed. It didn’t feel like a Christmas film at all. Martin Sheen is still a brilliant actor and the costume changes are amazing but it just didn’t have a good enough element of redemption. Going home or being home for Christmas is central to any Christmas story (echoing the bible) and this film did have that. He was on a train to Nottingham. Train nerds may be distracted by the countdown of the stations. However, it lacked a good redemption story.

On the journey, Martin Sheen’s character discovers he can time travel if he moves through the carriages. At the beginning he is a smarmy 80’s nightclub owner with a beautiful fiancé and a brother who is happy with his own wife and children. At the end of the train journey he is an old man with a gammy leg and a brother who has no relationship and is possibly dead from a drugs overdose, having been in prison several times. We are left with a vague feeling that the brother might have been ok with the final time travelling meddling but maybe not, maybe he just got his girlfriend back. And most bizarrely the reason for most of these changes happened not because Sheen’s character realised he was a bit of an idiot but because he was jealous that his brother got better Christmas presents from his aunt. This wasn’t a film about someone realising their actions were selfishly making other people’s lives harder. It was a film about selfishly changing time to make your own life better. A true Christmas film for our time.

I’m not saying we should go back to sending people dead birds as good luck charms but I can’t help thinking a little compassion and a touch less selfishness would go a long way.

Pre-release anxiety

“You can go out from midnight tonight.”

“What? Out there? With people. Germs. Omicron. Christmas.”

“Yes, Christmas. It’s ok. We’ve saved Christmas for you. You can be kissed by all those extended family members you only see once a year and have an argument about Brexit.”

“Do I have to?”

“You should be grateful. We’ve saved Christmas.”

“But is it safe?”

“Don’t be silly. Nothing’s safe. You should know that.”

“Right. I do. So, I’ve got to go out there?”

“I think so.”

“Right. So what are the rules again?”

“There are no rules.”

“I’m sure there are.”

“Well, yes but they don’t have to apply to you. You’re not one of the people who will get arrested.”

“Really?”

“I think so. You’re not poor or from an ethnic minority. You’ll be fine.”

“I’m not an MP.”

“No, you are right, that would be the ultimate protection.”

“Against Omicron?”

“No, against being prosecuted. No one is safe from Omicron. Get boosted.”

“Do you mean, get a booster vaccine?”

“Get boosted.”

“Has it been tweaked to deal with the new variant?”

“No but it can be. Get boosted.”

“I do have to wait 28 days after infection, though, right?”

“Get boosted.”

“You said that. Are you sure you know what you are doing?”

“Don’t break the golden rule.”

“You said there are no rules. Couldn’t I just stay here and watch Strictly on loop?”

“Just follow plan B”

“Plan B? So everything up until now was plan A?”

“It’s simple. Get out there but don’t get out there. It’s Christmas. It’s all perfectly clear..”

Important Dates for 1883

Stuck at home, with nowhere to go I've returned to my old hobby of reading local newspapers from  1882.  It's a niche hobby but it is uniquely mine.

I know that you couldn't care less that the Orleans Club was brought down by Charles Timperley, the master of the workhouse and the rest of the Maldon eleven, even though the ground was slow going.  I'm sure you are also less than interested in the same man's vocal stylings at the cricket club concert, even though the comment, "Of the able performances of this little chorus, too much could not be said," does make you wonder just how bad he was.

What I do know you will be interested in are the important dates for 1883, printed in  a December 1882 edition.

Jan 1 – New Year’s Day 5 – Hedge Sparrow sings 6 – Epiphany 17 – Blackbird whistles 21 – Septuagesima Sunday 27 – Field Speedwell flowers 28 – Sexagesima Sunday	Feb 1 – Pheasant and Partridge shooting ends 2 – Candlemas Day 6 – Shrove Tuesday 7 – Ash Wednesday 11 – Quadragesima Sunday 14 – Valentines Day	March 1 – St David’s Day 17 – St Patrick’s Day 18 – Palm Sunday 23 – Good Friday 25 – Easter Sunday
April 1 – Low Sunday 5 – Game licences expire 6 – Old lady day 12 – Swift appears 23 – St George’s Day 29 – Rogation Sunday	May 2 – Rogation Day 3 – Ascension Day 9 – Honeysuckle flowers 13 - Pentacost Whit Sunday 16 – Ember Day 20  - Trinity Sunday 24 – Queen Vic born 1819 25 – Milkwort flowers 28 – Gueldre rose flowers 31 – Joan of Arc burned	June 21 – Proclamation Day 28 – Queen Vic crowned 1838
July 3 – Dog Days begin 23 – Horehound flowers 26 – Teasel flowers	August 1 – Lammas Day 6 – Bank holiday 11 – Dog Days end 13 – Grouse shooting begins	Sept 1 – Partridge shooting begins 12 – St Ledger Day 19 – Ember Day
Oct 1 – Pheasant Shooting begins 6 – Earthquake in England 17 – Foxhunting commences 25 – St Crispin’s Day 29 – Hare hunting begins 31 – All Hallows Eve	Nov 1 – All Saints’ Day 5 – Guy Fawkes Day 22 – St Cecilia’s Day 30 – St Andrew’s Day	Dec 1 – 1st Sunday in Advent 4 – New law courts appeared (1882) 21 – St Thomas Sh Day 25 – Christmas Day 26 – Bank Holiday 28 – Innocents Day 30 – Sunday after Christ 31 – New Year’s Eve

 

The thing that constantly surprises me about History is how much things change. You think that holy days and holidays are always the same but there are so many changes.

What surprises me most about these dates is that when the blackbird whistles or the honeysuckle flowers is as important as the Queen's birthday.

Although, now that I know I will be looking out for a whistling blackbird on the 17th of January, checking to see if the field speedwell has flowered on the 25th and whether the hedge sparrow is singing on the 5th.

And the winner is....

Whatever name 'it' chooses to go by, 'it' has won.  I don't want to be negative but it seems to me that it might be time to be honest, say goodbye to and hug your elderly or sick loved ones and just get on with it.  Treating a virus like an enemy you can beat with firepower has always been problematic because human bodies are complex and unpredictable.  When you add in human behaviour, weak  and confused governance, and an app that is buggier than the hotel we built for them in the garden, then there is no hope.

I say this because two confusing things happened today.  The first is that the antibody test result I took, bruising the ends of two fingers because my blood really likes to stay in my body, came back and the second is what a friend was told after she tested positive on both lateral flow and PCR.

My antibody test told me that I have antibodies from both a previous infection and the vaccine. It says that it is unlikely that these antibodies are from the current infection.  So, I am able to get infected with this virus, despite having active antibodies?  Ah, you say, but you don't have serious illness. And it's true, I don't but I do have a heavy cold that still hasn't gone away after seven days and has caused a complete loss of smell.  Although I am over fifty, I am also very fit and healthy and this level of illness is rare for me.

When I thought about this result, I decided that it was even more important to self-isolate, wear masks, wash our hands and get on the next slide.

Then a friend tested positive, after her partner was already sick (for the second time in a few months).  She dutifully put her result into the app and prepared to cancel Christmas only to be told that she didn't need to self isolate.

Now, I know I don't understand much but we've given up, haven't we? Wave the white flag, declare the winner.  

The only problem with this approach is there has been no funding or help for the NHS and no one in hospital has been told to give up on 'it'. In fact they are still prioritsing 'it' because if they don’t the whole system falls over.

Dear Boris

 Dear Boris,

Please resign. 

I’m mildly unwell and confined to my house,  having caught the Covid from a place you promised me was safe. I got the jab, jab, jab. I took personal responsibility. While I’ve done all those things I expected you to provide the NHS with everything it needed to fight this continuing pandemic. Instead you ignored them and expected them to jump, every time a crisis appeared, which they did to the best of their dwindling ability and now you’ve written them a thank you letter that you couldn’t even be bothered to write your name on properly. Everyone knows that the line about the government doing whatever it takes is absolute rubbish. And boosted isn’t the right word (I used to respect you, as a writer)

But it is not for these reasons I want you to resign. In fact I don’t think any of the rest of your party would do a better job and I’d much rather have a change of government than a change of leader and a reprise for the party.

It’s the brilliant Pippa Crerar of the Mirror is giving us a masterclass in journalism at the moment that is the reason I want you to resign today. Genius, to gather the evidence and slowly drip feed it exactly one year later. You know she has more, right? It might not have been you at those parties but it was in your house. You were the boss and you should have put your foot down, although you couldn’t because according to Dom, you and a Carrie were having parties of your own.

The last thing I wanted to see over my breakfast this morning (which tastes of cardboard, by the way) was a bunch of idiots in braces, smiling their horse teeth smiles, posed in front of a buffet. I do not want to spend my time wondering what the hot food was, although I am imagining beef olives and macaroni cheese. I do not want to read the quiz name teams and know that they were laughing at us. Prof Quiz Whitty, Next Slide Please, We’ve Been Clear and Hands, Face, First Place.

Come on Boris. Do the decent thing. You know she has the naked Twister pictures. Go now and spare us all.

Clever little virus

 I know there’s a lot of negativity about at the moment. You are supposed to pick a side and stick to it and if you are human then you are meant to be against the virus. Probably all viruses but let’s just concentrate on this one for now. 

As I am currently playing host to the little chap I find myself feeling quite proud of it. Seriously, it’s clever and I’m always impressed by intelligence. 

It’s a fascinating bug. Virologists must be having their best day ever, being able to watch a virus, new to humans, develop and assimilate. It might not be behaving as anyone expected but it is progressing in a way that must be fascinating to study.

The hope is, that this study will be of some benefit to humans but it might not be. It’s a virus. It doesn’t really care about us. 

Rona, Corona, Covid, It. There are so many names and so many varieties. It’s like the Heinz of the virus world. Last winter ‘it’ gave children tummy ache. This winter, ‘it’ is ‘just’ a cold. Maybe we should call it the special Christmas cold that could kill your granny. 

I know that someone has now died with the new variant but statistically that tells us nothing, so keep calm people and carry on partying. 

Sorry. I think that was Rona speaking, although I agree with the one case doesn’t tell us anything part.

It is a clever thing though. Christmas is a time when our natural instinct is to gather together indoors, to be foisted with unsolicited hugs and kisses. No wonder it loves this time of year.  

I’m particularly impressed with it because it made me sociable. Briefly. On Friday, when I started to sneeze, I cut my lunchtime walk short because it was freezing and I was tired.

 “It’s been a busy week,” Rona said, “You need a rest. Just pop into the staff room and have a hot drink. Ooh look! People! Sit down. You deserve a rest. Of course you’re not sick. This is what always happens to you when you stop. Look, a funny conversation. Join in. Of course the staff room isn’t too loud for your holey brain. Sit back. Relax. Enjoy this moment.”

I hope no one in the staff room does get sick because Covid guilt is a bigger thing than I imagined but you’ve got to be impressed with ‘it’.

‘It’ is rather pretty too

The curse of the afternoon tea voucher

For Christmas 2019, my daughter bought me an afternoon tea voucher for three. I was thrilled because it was for the farm shop behind where she lived and came with the instructions that it would be for a girly day for her, me and my sister. We planned it for Mother’s Day but the voucher was cursed.

As soon as she bought it she started to think about moving back to Essex. Then over New Year she caught a nasty flu, which confirmed the idea. As soon as she got the new job we started to hear about a novel coronavirus emerging from China. 

By the time Mother’s Day arrived the world was in such a panic that cafés had closed but the farm shop was doing takeaway. This would be our last opportunity to use it, as she was due to move home in a few weeks time. I was so concerned with persuading her to move back straight away that I left the vouchers at home and had to pay for the ordered takeaways. We sat on the floor of her flat (her table was full of work from home screens) and ate, while random people arrived to buy her furniture and we stuffed things into bin bags and shoved them in my sister’s car. The Long Suffering Husband came with me the next day to help collect more stuff and as we drove home Boris made his lockdown announcement.

The voucher stayed pinned to the board until my daughter moved and I gave it to her to use, the next time she visited friends. 

This weekend we were due to go to Birmingham with friends for the Christmas market. It has been a long and stressful couple of weeks, so I was looking forward to relaxing and starting to get into the Christmas spirit.  We had planned to stop on the way for some lunch and the LSH suggested Market Harborough. 

“Ooh, there’s still the afternoon tea voucher,” I said

It was still in my daughter’s kitchen drawer.

Last week was particularly stressful. It was the week of the school nativity, meaning that I had to be in school everyday and also a week where I had eight pupils taking exams. My daughter was away on Monday night and so we walked to hers in the morning to feed the cats before an afternoon  in a hall of coughing children. When she came home on Tuesday evening, she discovered that we had left a tap on and flooded her house. Soggy moggies, lifting laminate and cupboards full of soaked rice and pasta weren’t the only things we found during the clean up. The afternoon tea voucher was floating in a drawer.

“I don’t think you’ll be able to use this,” she said, putting it on the radiator with the cats vaccination records.

The cats and and the voucher dried out and the LSH booked the afternoon tea and put the voucher in the car glove box, so we didn’t forget it. 

I was taking a lateral flow test almost every day because twice a week didn’t feel enough with the number of cases in school. The last thing I wanted was to be a super-spreader.  Thursday was the morning of the exams, the afternoon of the last nativity performance and I had a scratchy throat. By the evening I felt understandably tired. I had a meal booked out with friends and so took a lateral flow test before I went out. 

“Phew, it’s negative. I was really worried,” I told the LSH.

Then on Friday morning I started to sneeze, my nose was runny and I was freezing. 

“Do you think I should pop down for another PCR test?” I asked the LSH, just to be sure.

“We will be on our way to Birmingham by the time you get the results,” he said, “The lateral flow was negative, it’s just a cold.”

However, my usual Friday night lateral flow came back positive. PCR confirmed. Weekend cancelled. No chance to use the cursed vouchers. 

I wonder if I could end the pandemic by ceremoniously burning the voucher?

And the camel did a poo on the stage

 That’s a wrap. 

End of nativity season for another year. 

This weekend, key stage one teachers will be hitting the wine hard, sitting a a dark room and rocking, mumbling fragments of songs that are wedged between their ears. Tortuous rhymes, “But you’re going to be a mum, his highly honoured chum!” sneak out at night, morphing into twitching dreams.

Although, it’s too late to change anything that happened teachers will reflect on the successes and failures, hoping that next year’s nativity will also be described as, ‘the best ever.’

The failures always make good dinner party tales. Who doesn’t enjoy hearing stories about the moment when the music stops and the children carry on singing but change both the key and tempo of the piece? Or about the child who stuck two fingers up at his mum to stop her taking pictures when she’d been told not to? 

There are always a lot of stories to choose from. It’s inevitable when working with 150 small divas between the ages of 4 and 7. 

There will have been wardrobe malfunctions. Mary’s veil will have slipped over her face, an angel’s wing will have fallen off, the lead presenter will have lifted her skirt above her head, a shepherd will have dropped a crook and the donkey’s tail will have fallen off.  A small child, dressed as a sheep will have dropped their leggings during the class dance and told the teacher encouraging them to pull them up, “I’ve got an itchy bum cheek, though, innit?”

Small children aren’t always proportionate with the noise they make and so a comment like that will have carried right to the back of the room but the whole birth of Jesus gets mumbled and swallowed into a twisting whisper. There is a myth that under sevens can stand still on stage and project their voices but I think you are more likely to see a unicorn, which is lucky for seven year olds because that’s all they really want from life.  Teachers try various techniques like putting a star, cross or spot where each child should stand but there is always a risk that a child standing on another’s shape could lead to a punch up.  Then there is the microphone dilemma, as inevitably it will be the loudest child that has been spookily cast as Herod that will stand in front of it and sing at top volume, while the child with the line about calling the baby Jesus shrinks back from it and gets even quieter.

Props can cause a whole host of problems but most primary school teachers will be watching the clips from the school in Ireland where the intended sparklers turned out to be fireworks  and feeling very grateful that they only had to deal with the flock of inflatable-sex-toy sheep that Amazon were selling with their shepherd outfits this year. 

https://www.thescottishsun.co.uk/news/3592775/alloa-mum-son-school-blow-up-sex-doll-sheep-amazon-pulled/amp/

All of this always happens in winter vomiting virus season, flu now Covid season, so coughs, snot and other bodily fluids feature heavily. My favourite story from this year’s round of nativity plays that I heard was the camel who loudly shouted, “I’ve dun a poo,” shook his leg only for the offending turd to fly out onto the stage. I hope someone writes that into Nativity 6 (or whatever number we are up to) stretching the truth to make it land in the lap of the Mayor, sitting in the front row. 

Even with all of the disasters or maybe especially because of them teachers will also be feeling pride at their achievements. I know I am.

Seriously Nasty

 It wasn’t gin in a tin and a Mr Kiplings mince pie. It was spin the bottle, cheese and lots of wine, laughing at the general public, putting everyone’s lives at risk, telling lies about it and naked twister.

With governance like that, no wonder we have the highest excess death rate in the whole of Europe and the ONS have had to write a clear statement on their data page which, to me, reads as, this has been a public health disaster, don’t believe the lies.

Twitter is a very angry place right now. People are sharing their complex grief stories, filled with loneliness and despair.

Even if our NHS was the best health care system in the world (which it probably isn’t after all these years of a conservative government’s under-funding) it is still shameful to put all this unnecessary pressure on it, then lie about it and laugh at the people who elect you.

Joke makers are having the time of their lives. Their job couldn’t be easier. Even Ant and Dec are having a go. Rory Brenner tweeted, “If there was a piss up at number 10 last Christmas then it’s unlikely that Boris organised it. Because. Well. You know.”

However, we don’t need comedians when Boris Johnson’s own especially appointed press officer can film her own comedy routine, in such a way that makes us all know that it’s not funny. In fact, it’s seriously nasty.

Social Worker

 There’s a social worker who is currently on sick leave, who stands to lose their job, is getting death threats, has been on anti-depressants for years, has been working crazy hours, maybe 20 hour days and feels as though they have been in a room with 100 small fires and an egg cup of water.

‘Just one?’you ask.

No. Not just one, or even the two in Solihull, who visited Arthur before his death: The two who considered that a boy who told them that he was happy and felt safe (interviewed alone) wasn’t as at much risk as the boy who had been returned to his parents by a judge, despite clear evidence of systematic abuse. They offered parenting and mental health support instead.

The government has pledged to leave no stone unturned until they can find an individual to blame. It definitely couldn’t be a failing of lack of money. An egg cup of water should be enough.

Meanwhile, these two social workers are not allowed to talk to anyone. Other social workers keep their distance because they are told to. The death threats are all over social media. Lies are told about them not being registered (they are, I checked). Social workers have to re-register every two years. They can’t leave their homes and their children get spat on on the school bus.

It breaks my heart that this little boy died but the people to blame are in prison. The people who failed to stop it are just as much victims (except maybe the people who cut funding and the judges who return abused children to their parents). The hairdresser who watched as the little boy was made to stand still in a corner for 6 hours, the grandparents and uncle who reported the issue but didn’t step in and insist the child lived with them, the school who had reported that the boy was traumatised from his mother previously stabbing his step-father and going to prison, the teaching assistants who were ringing during lockdown and the social workers will all be feeling guilty but they were only trying to help.

I wonder why this case has bothered us so much. How could I be so heartless? But this little boy isn’t the only one. There are thousands suffering at the moment.

You think we should know?

You listen to the recordings his step mother made and with the benefit of knowing he has died hear an abused child however if I had recorded my child’s tantrum after being told they couldn’t eat all the chocolate in their advent calendar then I’m sure it would sound very similar.

The fact that this happened so fast is what has shocked us but I can’t help feeling more sorry for the thousands of children that are dying slowly and the social workers who only have an egg cup.

A picture of my daughter’s cat as he tried to convince us he should have all the treats in the catvent calendar to lighten the mood.

It’s not always true

 Just because you say something it doesn’t always mean it’s true. Even if you passionately believe it, you could still be wrong. 

I know.

Mind blowing.

Surely, once you think something then you have to stick to your guns. No going back. No apologising. No reflecting on what happened with hindsight.

I was thinking about the Downing Street Christmas ‘gathering’ where ‘all guidelines were followed.’

Now, I like to bash the government as much as the next person but what if it was just a group of people, who had been together all day, trying to work out how to get the country through the mess of a pandemic, who had sat together in a room, cracked open a gin in a tin and a box of Mr Kipling mince pies and swapped their gifts? Was that against guidance? No. Admittedly, it wasn’t fair that some people got to do this and others were stuck at home, either working or on furlough, lonely and scared but some people did have to go to work and the rules were loose enough that they could be interpreted differently. Just because some people are saying laws were broken that doesn’t make it true. Just because the Prime Minister is saying that there’s nothing to see here it doesn’t mean the issue wouldn’t benefit from more scrutiny.

 Weirdly, the justice secretary is now saying that there can be no investigation into this to see if it was a crime because crimes aren’t prosecuted retrospectively. What he said might not be true. It has led to some very funny comments, particularly from writers of the most popular TV genre. Don’t we all love a cold case drama? Obviously, crimes have to be prosecuted retrospectively. It would be terrible if rapists or robbers could only be stopped if a policeman was present at the time. However, the people saying that all crimes are prosecuted retrospectively might not be saying the truth either. The Covid laws were not designed for witch-hunts. The point was that they gave the police powers to go in and break up large parties and fine people as a deterrent to others. It would be awful if anyone who didn’t like you could contact the police and insist that you were prosecuted because at the beginning of lockdown you walked your dog twice a day. 

As I was flicking through Twitter and laughing at the jokes being made by the writers of New Tricks, Silent Witness, The Unforgotten, The Missing,  Waking the Dead and the Pembrokeshire Murders I stumbled upon this picture.

It’s not true, is it? Although it’s a wonderful picture and the middle child looks so happy.

Getting outside is brilliant. I’m all for it. It’s good for your brain but I don’t have lasting memories of any walk I’ve taken. Not one. In fact that’s probably the benefit of them: that they allow your brain to rest and get on with the filing job without adding more to the pile.

However many of my early memories are TV. Mary, Mungo and Midge posting a letter and me wanted to do the same. Hartley Hare being stupid while I ate Heinz tomato soup. Trying to draw the test card. Thinking I was going to die as I laughed and cried at the same time over a Shirley Temple film. If you are a similar age to me then you know the end of this sentence.

“It’s Friday, it’s five to five and it’s …..”

I started senior school the same year as the first episode of Grange Hill and was convinced I would have my head flushed down the toilet. My teenage years are littered with jokes, humour and one liners from comedy programmes. Even now, I look forward to the next episode of a bloody murder programme more than I do a walk in the countryside and I love walking.

Tis the season of itchy chilblains

 Ask any musician about December and they will tell you that it’s a particularly challenging month. Outdoor gigs and the resulting itchy chilblains have always been a feature. 

I got my first when I was about 9 and had been carolling every night in one week. In the Seventies you couldn’t move for people singing and playing carols. Every High Street would have a brass band or a group of singing scouts rattling a tin. Groups of small Guides and Brownies would take a five mile route march, stopping to sing under a lamppost, while they sent the cutest to knock on doors and beg for money. 

This practice, which used to require the door knocker to give good wishes with an opportunity to check on elderly neighbours in cold winter months has been stopped by paperwork. You now need to apply for a licence from the local council or police (if you are in London). This gives you a window of three days and you still aren’t allowed to shake the tin. Also, we don’t need to now that we can check on people with telecommunications. Why Carol when you can WhatsApp?

Music is still a huge feature of Christmas and some of us work hard to keep the traditions of carols alive. 

Last year was a let down on the live music front and so this year we were all planning to make up for it until Omicron. Boris said, “Don’t cancel your nativity plays. Jenny Harries said, “Don’t leave your house unless it’s essential.” Penfold popped up with a football metaphor and Chris Whitby is hiding in a hole and rocking.

Whatever schools and other concert organisers do now they won’t be able to please everyone. Omicron is an anagram of moronic but, as someone pointed out, omicron b can be rearranged to make no crimbo and none of us want that. 

When I was walking the other morning I saw some children, dressed in sheets and others with tea towels on their heads going into a primary school. One little boy was talking to his mum about it. I tried not to judge while comparing her duvet coat with his sheet.

“I’m really looking forward to it,” he said, “We missed out last year but it is really cold.”

“Yes, think of me, having to stand in the cold and watch you though.”

“I don’t know why we can’t do the nativity in the summer.”

I waited for an explanation about the birth of Jesus, the meaning of Christmas or even a pagan explanation of bringing joy to cold, dark, lonely months.

“No. I don’t know why either. It would make so much more sense to do it in the summer.”

Any school that is brave enough to put on any concert or nativity play this year should be praised. Whatever they do, someone will complain and no one wants to be accused of killing a child’s grandparent.

However, if the price you have to pay is a few itchy chilblains then I think it’s worth it.

I wouldn’t swap days making paper chains, teaching Christmas carols while a donkeys head watches you, even if I do sometimes get a little stressed and grumpy.