December Diary

 It is the seventh of December, and I have just finished an online order for a Christmas gift. For myself. When I pointed this item out to JG in the catalogue, he did not so much as cast an eye over it. ‘Order it for yourself,’ he said. This instruction could mean a) that he has a gift for me already or b) that I am supposed to wrap it when it comes and put it under the tree. So goes our life. Computerized and complicated. The joys of being over eighty and, to an extent, housebound with one another.

I was going to write the dreaded Christmas letter this evening, the one that I fold and insert in the cards that I send, still, in envelopes with stamps on them. But that paragraph was what came up to the top of my mind and I do not think that it is a good opening paragraph for a cheerful and factual account of 2023. Not that my Christmas letter is usually either of those things. The big event of this year was the insertion of my nice new metal knee into my leg. We also had to have some big but dangerous trees cut down close to the house. All of the children and grandchildren are continuing to do what I described them as doing last year. And if I write about what I think of world news and politics, the candles on the bottom corner of the paper will melt.

We had book club this morning but there were only three of us there. COVID, other illnesses of member or member’s spouse, a family death, and other stuff. It’s December, after all. The topic was Children’s Literature and we had one really interesting presentation about, wait for it, ‘bibliotherapy’ with a selection of books for three age groups to illustrate it. (Never mind the melatonin for your tot; read him ‘Goodnight Moon’ several times.) I have to bug this creative member for her book titles. She had a pile of them and since I was sitting beside her, I became sidetracked by reading one. I am supposed to be the club’s recorder, but I have not even done November’s report yet. It is sitting on my desk in pieces. Anyway, we did agree on topics for the next three months. January will be on mysteries since the holiday clatter makes it hard to read seriously. I don’t much enjoy mysteries, but any book is better than none.

Next week is another club and one which I love. We call it ‘Discussion Group’ and our leader, she who thought the idea up, sets us a topic. Not a heavy, do your research sort of topic, though, but something topical or that affects all of us. A lot of medical stuff; we are all old ladies. We have one member who insists we have a cheerful piece to the discussion. And I love that and love her for insisting on it. She is a wonderful and thoughtful person who is dealing sensibly and courageously with a medical condition that would devastate me. She has lost most of her sight. And yet she carries on, even with the book club, using audiobooks and her amazing memory.

And the week after that, the YD will be home. It is devoutly to be hoped that enough of the snow and ice will melt off the trees that the daughters can select their usual Lanark slightly unsightly Christmas tree. And put it up. Then Christmas can come, even if I have not sent a single card.