A MUTED RED LINE

Today’s the day then. Our Christmas deadline for exchanging. Perhaps I’m not full of enough faith, but there’s a muted sense of resignation about it. Neither of us expect the Christmas miracle.

I’ve been joking about how it should happen like it does in those movies - the snow falling at exactly midnight, and the whole town coming over with fresh-baked cookies. Then, in a flurry of surprise and falling snowflakes, the solicitor arrives with a freshly drawn contract and a bunch of keys wrapped up in bright red ribbon. Hark the Herald plays. We all sing as the Christmas lights sparkle, and then, roll credits.

“I think it’s okay to be pragmatic,” I said last night. Once again my brain was wrestling with the idea of letting go of hope to defend against disappointment. It seems very natural, but also… not very spiritual.

“The faith part of me really wants it to happen tomorrow; the logic is though, that it won’t,” I said to Gary. I was thinking about the two documents needed from our vendors’ vendors: the grant of probate and the non-revocation of power of attorney. Despite our solicitor reassuring us that they’re ‘straightforward’, I have a deep, uneasy feeling that both of those things are just as complicated as they sound. And we also have to remember that there’s probably a family trying to resolve that complexity in the middle of some grief.

So here we are - a muted red line, a simpering milestone: a resigned sense of gloomy predictability. In a way (although it means a nomadic Christmas in the cold) there’s some relief in it not happening today. At least we know where we are (or aren’t) for a few weeks - and admittedly, the pressure would be off for the festive period. It might not be the Christmas we wanted, but we can make the best of it.