I am writing this between Christmas and New Year. The royal dates of the calendar: the interregnum. Or, as many might say, boredom.
It’s just that after all the frenetic activity of the previous few weeks, it seems a bit of a let-down. The family has gone home; the Christmas songs have left the radio for a month or two (actually that’s a good thing); the weather is drab, neither something nor nothing: whip-ma-whop-ma weather they might say from my corner of the British Isles; and there’s nothing on the telly: Strictly has finished and the snooker hasn’t started yet.
But, at least we have our Christmas gifts to entertain us. Hmmm! Now don’t get me wrong. I am no grinch. I like to give people things. Some might even call me generous. But being required to select something perfect, to order, just because the calendar says I should, is a bit of a stretch. It seems that the chances of choosing things that the ones I love most don’t really want, and won’t use, is high. But I am a slave to tradition. It’s one that has perpetuated, I understand, since the days of the Roman Empire. Extraordinary! And they didn’t even have Amazon. I should consider myself fortunate I suppose to live in an age of instant delivery. All you have to do nowadays is consider vaguely that you need, want or have a casual interest in something, and a middle-aged bloke in a scratched Ford Focus bangs on the door demanding to take a photo of you holding it. Marvellous really.
It’s a strange time for gastronomy too. For weeks we have been planning for two days: Christmas and Boxing Day. Stocking up with enough food to supply a medieval siege. More than even the most voracious family could eat in a week. Then there are the left-overs. It’s not the food itself that’s the problem, so much as the switch in eating habits that results from having a ham, a turkey carcass, a bowl of cold sprouts, 15 mince pies, a half-eaten fruit cake, two bags of nuts and various delightful delicacies offered by well-meaning neighbours all hanging around to be nibbled at will. Any semblance of a normal diet is abandoned in favour of perpetual grazing on high-calorie, super-rich foods guaranteed to cause some malady or other when eaten in sufficient quantities. And there are sufficient quantities.
“Would you like something to eat?” comes the familiar question from Mrs J in the kitchen. The answer is usually simple. Either I am hungry, in which case, it’s “yes”; or I am not, when a simple “no thank you” is sufficient. At this time of year, the truthful answer is “I have no idea”. My last meal might have been yesterday afternoon, but whether I need another one now is anyone’s guess. “A drink?” Likewise. Not a clue.
But perhaps the most disconcerting feature of the interregnum is the quiet. I live in a quiet place: a cul-de-sac in a 1,000-year-old town in the middle of the English countryside. It’s hardly Times Square in the middle of the summer. But now, life has slowed to a crawl, a drift – no direction. As far as I know today is Saturday, but it’s open to debate. The milkman didn’t come today, so it must be the weekend – but he didn’t come yesterday either, or the day before. So maybe … oh I don’t know. More importantly, I don’t care much.
I have checked on my e-mail, but there’s nobody there. My social media has dried up too, except for somebody raging at a public figure for something he probably didn’t do. The phone hasn’t rung for days. Does it still work? Not sure where it is anyway. Could be in the car, but I haven’t been out in it since Monday. Did the milkman come on Monday?
Outside the air is still, the people are still, the blackbirds sit and watch in silence as if scared to break the moment. They occasionally allow themselves a perfunctory squark. The traffic has gone. Vapour trails have vanished. Everyone is waiting for Hogmanay to break the spell and allow normal service to resume as soon as the January hangover subsides.
It could get some people down. Then, just as the melancholy threatens to reach its peak, a guardian angel appears in the form of Mrs J, brandishing a mug of tea in one hand and a bacon butty in the other. Yes! I love this time of year.