RIPPLE OF ISOLATION

I heard someone say that Christmas starts too early, and then takes you by surprise.

I know what they mean: we complain about decorations being up in shops in September, we blink past Halloween, and then suddenly it’s Christmas Day. And it seems the older you get, the faster that happens.

And now, look, it’s New Year’s Eve.

I had a complicated Christmas. I was woken at 2:20am on Christmas morning, and a set of circumstances unfolded that meant I had to sleep on my parents’ sofa - so that my oldest sister could crash in their spare room. She stayed (as I did) until the day after Boxing Day. It was really nice to see her, actually, though I was tired when I got home.

I don’t think I should go into details about why she was with us. She was though, quite likely to be carrying covid, and that made things more complicated. All the plans I had with Sammy this week evaporated into a couple of chilly, socially-distanced walks. It’s nobody’s fault - just the ripple of isolation that covid always creates around itself. It’s a glum pebble in a wobbling pond.

So it’s been okay. I built a windmill, watched a few movies, slept in late, stayed up doing jigsaw puzzles next to a glass of cherry brandy - classic Betwixtmas really.

I think next door got a new sound system for Christmas. I’m getting the cool thump of electrónica through the wall today, a kind of hollow party of drum and bass in an empty room. I guess that’s to make up for the traditional New Year’s Eve party. Hollow.

Honestly, New Year’s Eve is like an obstacle course for introverts! I’m quite thankful that the ripple-effect has rendered it more of a couch event this year. I’m not exactly in the mood for a party.

Do you think it’s inevitable that we’ll all get covid at some point? It does seem to be swirling round us like rising waters on a desert island. One in thirty five apparently. This year, three vaccinations have helped mitigate the effects of the disease, but it’s still spreading - especially with the new variants. Is it just a matter of time?

A year ago, we were heading full-steam into Lockdown 3.0, and only the most vulnerable were vaccinated. It was a strange, slightly depressing time, but there was some hope out there. Perhaps after all, if lots of us get it it will gradually boost our collective immunity and we can end this? I’m not saying I want to get it. I’d rather not. There are plenty of unvaccinated people in my world who could still have a rough time ahead, and I’d rather not worry them about it.

My sister didn’t have it, thankfully. Sammy too, has stayed clear of covid, and there are lots of answered prayers in that journey. We’re still being very cautious though, even though the ripples still split people apart. We had an okay Christmas and we’ve done our best with the complicated Betwixtmas that followed. There’s no reason to believe we can’t do the same in 2022.

BOOSTER

I don’t mind telling you, I got my booster today. In Argos.

Well, the place that used to be Argos. It’s now a clinical vaccination centre: white painted walls, makeshift cubicles, blue plastic chairs, polished floor. I was reflecting on the irony of it: the last Saturday before Christmas, after all my pining for the past, there I was literally queuing in Argos, where in years gone by, I’d have been queuing by the collection points for prezzies of old.

I think I’ve been desensitised. Being there reminded me how serious this all is, how otherworldly, how apocalyptic. I’ve rarely been closer to the sceptics. 

The lady at the first checkpoint took my name and gave me a round, pink sticker, which I carefully peeled and stuck to my jacket. Then a man in a yellow jacket gave me firm directions on which arrows to follow through Former Argos as well as another sticker with a time printed on it. Before long I was shepherded into the next queue, to a third person who wanted to know my name and date of birth, and eventually to a cubicle where a nurse in blue beckoned me towards him.

“And how are you feeling?” he asked, casually, carefully, as I sat down, “All good today?”

“Yup,” said I. He was examining a syringe, in that way that only medical professionals do. I tried not to look at the syringe. He kept talking very deliberately.

“Any plans for the evening?”

“No, not really, just a quiet oooh…” I composed myself as the needle bit me. “Just a quiet one at home, I think.”

It was done. I was boosted with Moderna, complementing the two shots of Astra Zeneca I had had earlier in the year. Depending on your point of view, I was either: as protected from Covid as I could possibly be; a guinea pig for a still untested medical treatment, or a gullible fool with nanotechnology swimming through my blood stream.

I’m sorry Argos has gone. I had to wait on those blue plastic chairs, just in case I had an allergic reaction. Back in the old days you’d wait on bucket seats for your collection to be ready. The ticket numbers would scroll by, on coloured TV screens hanging from the ceiling tiles.

“Order number thirty seven… to your collection point please,” she'd say. I remember the intonation; I mean, who doesn't?

Those same ceiling tiles. I leaned back in the chair. I had liked Argos of course. It was there for my childhood and it was there in my teens, my twenties, and even my thirties. Whichever side of the debate you’re on: whether you’re right behind Covid passports or you think Bill Gates is somehow conditioning the world, you’ve got to admit, the world is definitely in a worse place than it was.

How will it be better? How can we make it better? I’m not sure exactly, other than doing the kind things at the end of our fingertips. To be honest, sometimes that’s all I feel I can carry responsibility for - the immediate things in front of me, the words I use to describe people, the beautiful moments when eyes lock over face masks and a smile wrinkles into crows feet. Then there's the niceness of reacting well, or finding out something charming or quirky about someone you don't know. Perhaps every interaction is an opportunity to be what we Christians sometimes call ‘a blessing’. If that is all I’ve got, I really want to do it well.

The clock ticked over to fifteen minutes. I threw my coat on over my shoulders and calmly left old Argos behind. 

HOW LOVELY ARE YOUR BRANCHES

I’m sitting in my living room, looking at my Christmas tree. It’s been up a couple of weeks now, slightly glinting in the corner. Underneath it, there are piles of neatly wrapped presents - some in gold, some in reindeer paper. It is all very… festive.

This time last year, the government slipped us into Tier 4. It was a lockdown really, mostly covering the whole of the South of England. There were very few people vaccinated, and the government were yet to torpedo their own credibility with secret Christmas parties. Tier 4 meant that none of us could see our families - at least it did for us.

It’s different this year. It seems it’s much more up-to-us to decide what we’re going to risk and what we’re going to cancel in the festive season. I had a few things lined up - beer and carols, a barn dance gig, a work Christmas party - all cancelled, all giving me that weird mix of regret and relief.

That’s led to the unusual scenario of not having anything much to do in December, which in turn has given me space to put up my tree early, spend a few nights wrapping the prezzies, and generally enjoy Advent in the company of Bublé, Pentatonix, and a bottle of Christmas Mead that Sammy and I got from the farm shop.

The only cloudiness about it all is that around us, cases of Omicron are rising like the sea about a desert island. With the ten day isolation period, I’m just one positive lateral flow test away from spending this Christmas on my own, and I don’t wish to do that if I can help it.

The plan (at the moment) is to spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with the Intrepids. I’ve booked my ‘seat’ at the Midnight Communion service (which I did miss last year) and I’ve got chocolates and cherry brandy to take round, along with a CD of Christmas carols from Windsor Castle; I’m hoping it'll do some heavy lifting against the Welsh Male Voice Choir who’ve been belting across the valleys in our house since about 1987.

It is a plan. But also, the waters are rising. There seem to be a lot more people coming into contact with Covid at the moment, whether it’s Omicron or not. Additionally, lots of organisations are cancelling events, which is a shame. For the first year since I was a kid, I’m not playing carols anywhere for any reason - not even online like I did last year! I’m sad about that, but I understand it.

It’s just reminding me that I have to hold Christmas lightly. I never want to spend it alone, and thankfully so far I’ve never had to. But, if I do, I want to remain thankful. I’d want to feel as though I did my best to do what Dickens describes as ‘keeping Christmas in my heart’. Everything else - from face-timing Sammy, to actually going to my parents and being with them, from games nights with friends, to a packed Boxing Day with all my family… would be a bonus.

So. I’m sitting in my living room, looking at my Christmas tree. Owned it for five years, put it up twice. Those years of racing around in December, carolling here, queuing in twinkly shops for last minute presents there - never having time nor inclination to come home to a cold living room and put up the tree… those days are gone now.

And weirdly now, in this year, when the chances of doing Christmas alone are higher than ever, I’m absolutely not afraid of it. I think I’ve realised that there’s a real difference between being alone and being lonely. But that? That’s for another time.

THE AWKWARD JOY OF CAROLLING

“That means I’ll probably just have to sit at home with the lights off,” he said, still holding the flyer up to the screen.

I shook my head in wonder. My colleague’s neighbours had organised a community event for carol singing, mulled wine and festive nibbles, just in the square up the road from where he lives. But he was having none of it.

“I can’t actually think of anything worse,” he said.

I felt my heart sink a little bit. I glanced over at the piano - the same piano I practise on every year, just to make sure I can still play those old tunes. I’ve written a lot about the Christmas Compendium, and how, for us at least, gathering round the piano for a sing-song was an unmissable joy in the Christmas calendar.

“But you don’t actually have to sing, do you?” asked the boss, half-horrified.

“Carol sheets and music will be provided,” he read aloud from the flyer. He grimaced.

“I guess that means some amateur, who thinks they’re a musician, will turn up with a guitar or something.” 

The reason my heart was sinking a little was because this year I don’t get to do anything like that, and I’m quite sad about it. I usually get to do carols at least somewhere! The last thing I would be doing if I had that opportunity tonight, is sitting alone at home with the lights off.

I know I can’t convince you. You’re either already with me, or dead against me and it’s okay. I did carols at my work Christmas party for a few years in a row because HR thought it would be nice - I quickly distinguished the full-gusto singers from the let’s-hide-in-the-bar-and-cringe people. I know the feedback I got, as well as the looks, and I don’t blame you for a moment.

I kept quiet on the call. I didn’t blame him, I just think he might be missing out on something genuinely heart-warming and nice. Still, each to his own, I guess.

Meanwhile, it probably says something about my circle of influence, that I’ve got another friend out there who’s just released an album of Christmas songs, folk-tunes and carols that have brought him joy over the years. He pulled together a bunch of musicians (he didn’t need a piano) and they did a great job of it back in the summer.

“Part of the joy of singing carols together,” he says, “Is the joy of seeing someone enter in to it for the first time and really love it. All the awkwardness just sort of melts.”

Well said. I think my colleague might take a bit more convincing though.

STUFF IT ALL

I went back to the poetry slam last Sunday. Actually, it was the first time I’d been live and in the room at one of these, so really I was kind of there for the first time.

It was so interesting. It’s held in a sort of community pub - but not a warm, glinty pub; I mean a cold empty room with a high ceiling and flaking paint. Actually, it’s quite perfect for poetry now that I think about it.

That being said, I felt out-of-place. I mean I felt really out-of-place. I think it was because I’d taken poems about cheese, about silly movies and imaginary lands of nonsense and they're incongruous to the depressing venue. And it quickly became clear that most of the poems being performed there were indeed about anger, rage, fury, politics, and Bracknell.

I don’t want to be disrespectful to them. Poetry is passionate expression from the deepest places, and I get that. It’s all art, it was all very well done; it’s just that I’m a cartoonist. I think a lot of people there were a bit more Tate Modern... and I had turned up with the Beano.

Anyway. I came home wondering whether I too could write a poem that was more fitting to that furious, flaky mood. So I did.

It’s still a cartoon, but it’s one that gives you (I hope) a little window into the kind of verse that’s all the rage at these open mic poetry things. I’m satirising the slam, sure, but I really don’t think it’s in a mean way - just observation. And even more obviously, I don’t actually think these things; I just imagine that some of the other poets might.

I’ll go back of course, next year. I might even double-down and wear something brightly coloured to offset the glum paintwork. I quite enjoyed it.

Stuff it All

Urgh! I am so angry

My Mum made me wear a dress

And stuff the stuffing government

For getting us in this mess

And even though I’m seething

I’ll try to be polite

Then read out angry poetry

At the poetry thing tonight

But yes! I’ll still be fuming!

She made me brush my hair!

But now I’m independent, I

Just hope she hears me swear, ‘cos

now I’m furious at the windows;

I’m swearing at the door

I lift my head, and curse aloud

And incantate some more

Of this invective Anglo Saxon

That stirs so deep within.

Then I’ll hurl it at the government

And hope they take it in.

Oh! And stuff the local vicar

Who came that day for tea

Stuff his useless, empty words

And limpid sympathy

And stuff his stupid, stuffing face

That silent pious nod.

‘Cos no-one did much better at

Removing me from God.

Urgh! I am so angry

And this poem is all I can do

To let out all that vented steam

And pour it back to you

And even though I’m furious

And come across as stressed

I’m really only angry

Cos my Mum made me wear a dress

 

DECEMBER DAYS

I just love December days,
When slowly sinks the sun 
She drops through gold and purple haze
As afternoon is done 
I like to watch her flicker past
The leafless trees and frozen grass
The bowing branches, 
Till at last 
She slips and blinks away

And, I love December nights 
When starlight fills the sky 
The gentle glow of Christmas lights 
As Advent bustles by 
I like to think of all the things 
That Father Christmas used to bring, 
The hope, the joy of carolling 
As candles flickered bright 

Yes I like December Days  
When slowly sinks the sun 
There should be a thousand ways 
To cherish every one 

PERMANENT ADVENT CANDLE

I woke up early this morning, realising that I’d fallen asleep with the bedroom lamp on.

Normally it’s on a timer. It switches itself off at midnight, and then comes on again when it’s time to wake up. Last night though, I turned the timer off so I could keep reading… and then for some reason, the next thing I knew I was waking up at 5am.

“Urgh,” I said. I reached across and flipped it back to timer, plunging the room into sweet darkness.

I had just about enough time to lie back on my pillow, breathe, and blink once… before the timer switched the light back on.

I sighed but it was too late. My eyes were open and there’d be no going back to sleep.

“How tall,” I wondered, staring at the ceiling, “Would my Advent Candle have to be to keep it burning through the whole of Advent?”

I’d lit it yesterday afternoon and worked out that it burns through a ‘day’ in around 30 minutes. If I had lit it at midnight on December 1st and wanted it burn through to Christmas morning without relighting, how much candle would I need?

Well. It turns out that it would need to be over 14m tall, probably about 46 feet. I imagined myself with a step-ladder and a very thin red candle in the garden. It would never work, would it?

According to one website though, paraffin wax has a burn-rate of 7.5 grams per hour and a density of 0.9 grams per cubic centimetre.

What if it were a shorter but much wider candle? Would that work? 

I did some more maths.

H = Number of hours in advent = 1,440

R = Burn rate of paraffin wax (g/h) = 7.5

D = Paraffin wax density (g/ccm) = 0.9

A = Mass of candle required (g) = H x R = 1440 x 7.5 = 10,800g

V = Volume of candle (ccm) = D x A = 0.9 x H x R = 9,720 cubic centimetres

So it would be a candle that weighs 10.8 kg (A). It would be horrendous to lift into position, however tall or wide it ends up.

I have another candle that has a diameter of about 10cm. As it turns out, the flame from that one isn’t hot enough to melt the wax at the edges, so the candle is slowly boring its way through a tube of wax. It’s getting harder and harder to light it without burning my fingers actually, but that’s another story. The point is, there’s obviously a maximum diameter for a candle, such that its melt pool extends beyond its width. Judging from this other candle I’d say the flame has a melt radius of around 4cm, 5 at most.

That gives us a fixed maximum diameter (Y) of around 9cm.

Y = 9cm

V = 9,720 ccm = diameter (Y) x π x length (Z)

V = πYZ = 9,720

Z = 9720/(πY) = 343.8cm

So my permanent Advent Candle would end up being 3.4m tall and 9cm wide. It would weigh the same as a kilo of rice or a car tyre, and it would be perpetually burning for 24 straight days.

At this point, I started wondering whether different types of wick might burn hotter, and whether that could increase the melt radius. But of course, then you’re in a world of complicated chemistry, and to be honest, you can take these things too far.

After all, if I wanted a steadily burning light in my flat for whatever reason, I could always just leave my bedroom lamp on.

FLU JAB

I went for my flu vaccination today.

“First time for the flu jab?” asked the pharmacy nurse behind her mask. I nodded.

“Yeah," I said, as though acknowledging the fact that I am ageing and seem to need extra protection against influenza now. “Figured it was the right time.”

Then, quite suddenly, I went into an unexpected cold sweat.

It occurred to me that I’d never asked about this particular vaccination process, and now seemed like the absolute worst time to check. I don’t even know what I would have said, how I would have phrased the question. You see, it was dawning on me that I might be getting this injection… well… in the buttocks.

‘That is so irrational,’ said my brain, silently. ‘These things are always in the arms. Unless you’re a baby! It was the arms for Covid. And TB. And tetanus, you wolly. Erm. You have got clean pants on though, right?’

Aaagh. Shut up, brain. You’re not helping!

Don’t get me wrong; I’ve no problem with exposing a buttock or two to a medical professional. It was just that I needed to be prepared in my mind if that highly unlikely thing was going to happen in the middle of Boots the Chemist. I needed to be ready; you know, prepped in my mind. I can’t just be able to do a full Forrest Gump without some warm up time! And for a moment I was turning all kinds of temperatures in that little cubicle, imagining the worst.

“Roll up your sleeve then,” said she eventually, quelling my hot/cold flush. I dutifully did so and stared ahead, relaxing with relief, trousers on and full waist height.

A sharp mosquito-bite sensation, the sound of the syringe squelching, and she was dabbing the arm with cotton wool and sealing it with a brown plaster. Just like that I was safe against this year’s flu.

“It is sensible,” she said, “The flu virus can change every year so it’s best to be protected.”

I thanked her and then went to sit on a wooden chair by the pharmacy. She wanted to check I wasn’t having an allergic reaction. Fair enough. I waited there until she came out and told me to go home.

A PARTY POSTPONED

There’s a work survey out today about whether or not they should ‘postpone’ the Christmas party next week.

Happy December, everyone. I voted yes. I said they should ‘postpone’ it, although let’s face it - that means cancelling it really, doesn’t it. What an unhappy situation.

Working from home has left me starved for company - the bonhomie and unseen pheromones of human-to-human interaction with people on the same mission as you, the clickety-clack of an office full of people typing and chuckling and chatting, and then walking around aimlessly with coffee cups - I miss all of that far more than I thought I would. I really needed the party.

Yet on the other side, we’re here faced-down by the deadly Omicron: the latest Covid variant to hit the streets. No-one knows yet whether this beastly mutation is clever enough to get around the vaccines, or even how transmissible it is - though the signs are there. In a cruel symmetry to the beginning of this pandemic, the numbers of detected cases are now creeping up from single to quadruple digits in the UK, and it probably won’t be long before Omicron is the dominant variant here.

I don’t want to get it. I don’t want to risk it. I don’t want it near my tent, so in the spirit of wisdom, I clicked ‘Yes’ to the postponement of something I really needed and was looking forward to. I have no idea what everyone else will do - I guess even if they vote no, I’ve nailed my colours to the mast, right?

Life’s a tricky balance. Risk versus reward, faith versus wisdom. Another prominent evangelical anti-vaxxer died yesterday - a pastor/televangelist who simply refused to be vaccinated, and preached heavily against it. 64 years old. I think that’s very sad whichever way you look at it.

My own belief is that as followers of Jesus, our lives are best lived with a key balance between faith and wisdom. Yes, God can heal you. Yes, you should take your medicines. Yes, he can protect you from the evil one; yes you should stay out of reach of temptation. It’s when we swing wildly towards one or the other extreme that I think trouble sets in.

Too much worldly wisdom and we never trust God for anything - life becomes all about our own decisions and lives, and we become the masters of our own destinies without believing or even listening to heaven. Swing the other way and we rely on out-of-this-world faith and before we know it, we’re suddenly ignoring seatbelts and headlamps and roadsigns and vaccines.

Somehow we have to find ways of being both in the world and not of it.

Well. This concludes today’s sermon. It’s okay - you can disagree with me; your balance is almost certainly different to mine. I just hope that your equilibrium of medicine and miracle keeps you free from this pernicious virus.

So anyway, I’m probably not going to the Christmas Do in that there London. Tum tum tum. At least I can confidently spend my last single Christmas with my parents without having to self-isolate. There are other things in the diary of course, and who knows whether they too will have to be postponed, cancelled, called-off, delayed? I just pray I’ll have enough wisdom and enough faith to do the right thing.