Walking the dogs with my sister she is telling me about a novel called “Lockdown” which paints a significantly gloomier picture than the one Omicron is currently treating us to.
“I really hate this time of year,” she says, echoing the lyrics of one of my favourite recent Christmas songs, “Home Alone Too,” by The Staves.
After a further exchange about my son’s medical student girlfriend telling us A&E waiting times are extending up to 24 hours in some places, I’m not feeling much seasonal cheer.
Back home, I lean heavily on my Christmas playlist to lift my spirits.
“Why aren’t there any really popular Christmas songs written in the past decade?” I ask my daughter.
“Because we only listen to them for one month of the year and don’t have a chance to get bored of the same ones,” she tells me.
I think to myself that she obviously hasn’t been in the supermarket during November when you have to endure “I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day,” on a loop and you feel like smashing your fist into the eggs.
“We listen to the Christmas songs we grow up with and so we get used to the songs our parents play. It’s nostalgia,” she adds.
Searching for a broader perspective I text my son and my friend Martin.
“It’s a nostalgia thing,” my son replies.
“Nostalgia,” says Martin.
It’s true that Christmas songs transport me to a time long gone.
The Pretenders “2000 Miles” takes me to the top of the multi-story car park on Christmas Eve 1983 standing with a friend whose name I can’t recall staring over the rooftops of the town in anticipation of life stretching out in front of me.
“Run With The Fox,” from the early 80s sees me stumbling from a bus after far too many Pernod and blackcurrants on the last day of term at Tonbridge catering college.
“Fairytale Of New York” is the countless Christmas Eve’s spent in the pub, in love, anticipating being in love, or recovering from the loss of love.
Nostalgia.
It feels as if the past was better but it’s probably just that the past had more future in front of it.
“Do you think everyone is puzzled about there being no new Christmas songs that catch on?” I ask my daughter.
“No,” she says, rather too quickly.
“Carols are hundreds of years old and you’re not fussing about them,” she says.
“Do you remember when the carol singers used to come and sing under the light outside the house and leave you sweets in the post box?”
Her face lights up, and not just from the screen of her phone.
“Yeah, I used to love that, Pressing our faces against the bedroom window in our pyjamas. They used to wave at us.”
She’s a child again.
I think about the huge record cabinet in my house growing up.
All the albums lined neatly in vast rows.
I’d run my finger along trying to find the Kings College Christmas album and ask my father to put it on for me.
In the kitchen, the windows would be steamed up as mum was baking sausage rolls.
In the front room, the gas fire was on and the table was laid in the white linen with the best cutlery.
There was a smell I can’t describe but will never forget. I’m going to call it “Christmas”.
And nothing else mattered for a while.
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