Half Life - 57 - 'O' dear

Half Life - 57 - ‘O’ dear

December 3rd, 2021

Thank you, omicron and the early snow! As the fifteenth letter in the Greek alphabet, meaning ‘O’, launches itself into the national psyche, and probably standing for “O shit!”, the comment the scientist who found the variant made when discovering it, we get to wear nice blue masks again and tut loudly at those who don’t. If we keep going with variants the whole of the UK will know the entire Greek alphabet, which could be Boris’s idea of educational levelling up. Afterall, what else do you need to drive jobs and innovation than knowing ancient Greek?

Just when our illustrious leader was busy upsetting the French, making friends with Peppa Pig, and looking a bit silly in the process, I was planning to try to leave the house by brushing down the sturdy Beast for a ride. Johnson has been handed a new crisis to distract us all with, and I was handed snow. My travel plans go on hold, and he gets a chance to repeat a mission, dusted off from last year, to save Christmas. It may show his lack of imagination, but if anything will motivate the British public to comply with restrictions it is a threat to weeks of drinking, eating, and partying. Just as well everyone started to get decorations up in November and stockpiled frozen turkeys.

As the snow starts to slip away, the trees transforming back to ruddy brown sticks from their elegant white, the soggy mud pushes the plan for a trip out until tomorrow or the day after. The consolation prize might be getting pushed around the Village by The Wife in the dreaded wheelchair, if only to remind myself what where I live looks like and wave at those who think I might have already kicked the bucket. Although impractical and foolish I have a desire to head into the Co-op to buy something I don’t need as it’s been over a year since I’ve been in. Joining in the spirit of the year, some early mince pies would be the good choice, so I can eat them while swearing at all the premature Christmas adverts already being pushed on us. I hope those companies made at least two versions; we are going to be fed up with them long before the 25th December comes around.

Fluffy robin and snowman cards cannot, in my head at least, be started until Christmas month but present buying is permitted, mainly as it remains a nightmare trying to work out what people might want. Wine and spirits are always a good back-up plan for some, but not for The Boys yet, which means both genuine thought and interrogation of one Boy about what the other might want will be needed. It’s hard enough for the long-suffering parents to figure it out, but as the questions from relatives start to roll in the challenge grows. We never know what to buy our own kids, let alone have spare ideas to give away.

Some arrangements get set in stone early and, given how the chemo plan falls, I know my Christmas Day will be spent at home probably not taking much interest in either food or drink. Falling smack in the middle of the ‘down week’, the best consolation will be some light snow for me to look at or, better still, some decent films to fall asleep to. Turkey is far from a favourite of mine, and Xmas pudding usually gets avoided, so there are some positives as I practice my ‘Bah – humbug!” Scrooge act. If BoJo does join in and cancels festivities at least I will be prepared and not as disappointed as the rest of the country. When your expectations are this low, not even he can ruin it.

The greatest disaster, however, over the festive season may be the risk to the Australian Ashes series due to get going in December. Cricket, when played on the other side of the world during our night-time, may not be top of the list for everyone, but waking up, flicking on the phone, and inspecting the scorecard is a ritual which can’t be missed. Only the English can get worked up about what has to be the smallest, and stupidest looking, prize cup in any sport. Hardly the size of a palm, no one has thought to encapsulate it into a larger cup which looks like it’s worth winning. If boxing world championship belts or tennis grand slam cups were of a similar size, they would be a laughingstock. Tyson Fury putting on a ‘belt’ the size of wristwatch and parading around the ring would hardly have the same sense of achievement and glory. Size isn’t everything and it’s about time the tiny little prize returned to England, and we finally win a series in Australia. That would be a real present for all of us.