My father-in-law has said quite specifically that he doesn’t want to come over for Christmas dinner but my wife hates to think of him alone again after the death of her mother a little over a year ago.
My son’s girlfriend has decided that she will eat with her mother rather than join us after the sudden death of her grandad earlier in the week.
“I remember setting the table one Christmas and wondering how many more I’d spend with my parents. My dad died the following year” I tell my daughter.
My daughter’s boyfriend still hasn’t had any of his covid vaccinations and blanks are drawn when he tries to find his NHS number.
“The nearest walk-in centre is in Sevenoaks,” she tells me.
“I’d rather drive to Sevenoaks than end up on a ventilator,” I say.
My son, in his wisdom, has decided to press ahead with long made plans to go to the world darts final at Alexandra Palace.
An evening of no masks, beer, and debauchery, indoors with thousands of similarly hammered young people, at the epicentre of the Omicron wave.
“Have you spoken to him about it?”
“What’s the point? He’s a grown-up and he’ll do what he wants. I’m just disappointed he thinks it’s a good idea.”
In truth, I didn’t want to address it. I don’t know why.
What’s really holding my attention is that I appear to have forgotten to buy the Christmas cheese.
Usually, I’d choose it in person on a much looked forward to day trip to Borough Market but I’m playing it safe this year so I ordered online, except that it appears I didn’t.
Checking the website there’s no record of my order.
“Have you looked at your bank account to see if payment was taken?”
“No, the order would be listed if I’d made it.”
These fine details upset me more than they ought to.
I struggle with my own frustration, rationalising that there will be no shortage of food.
The idea that Christmas will be sub-standard due to the absence of a small ripe Tunworth and a piece of Stilton is embarrassing and shameful which, ironically, makes my apparent mistake all the worse.
Amongst the air of loss in the house Cheddar should be insignificant.
“At least I’ll be able to open the fridge without gagging every time this year,” my daughter says.
“Not if I can help it,” I say, logging on and finding the last delivery slot which should ensure a cheese delivery on Christmas Eve.
My son won’t be with us on Christmas morning this year for the first time ever.
“We’ll have to save his stocking until later,” I tell my daughter who seems more disappointed at his absence than I’d imagined she would be.
My mother-in-law’s loss was so recent that it hadn’t perhaps properly sunk in last year.
“I miss granny,” my daughter says out of nowhere as we are icing the cake.
I won’t see my brother, who may or may not have moved to Yorkshire. My sister won’t come for dinner either and prefers to spend Christmas, a festival she has little time for, alone.
Everything is changing now that I’ve reached the age where the only likelihood of my not spending Christmas with my children is because they, for one reason or another, have chosen not to spend it with me.
There’s a knock at the door.
The delivery man hands over two substantial boxes.
In the kitchen, I open the first to find my last-minute cheese order.
In the second I find my original cheese order which, apparently, I hadn’t messed up after all.
“We can send some Stilton to your dad and give the spare Tunworth to my sister,” I say, trying to appear in control and to avoid thinking about all the money I have now spent on Christmas cheese.
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