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and Jack are spending Christmas with Jack’s dad, David, which is sad but at least it means that I can get next Christmas with the new baby, so it’s worth sacrificing this Christmas. Michelle is going to her family in Paris, Penny’s going to Lisa’s, and Marion and Tim say they’re having an open-house Christmas “for all the lonely flotsam and jetsam who don’t have a family to go to.” Not sure I really want to be categorized as a bit of “lonely flotsam or jetsam,” sounding, as it does, rather scummy and washed-up, though it’s very nice of them. Anyway, I’m not going to be a lonely flotsam or jetsam because I’m going to go round to Hughie and James’s. So ner.
    Dec 21
    Got this round-robin letter with a Christmas card from an old school friend who lives in the country:
    As the festivities approach, I find myself in the middle of a Christmas decoration course on Wednesdays. We all bring fir cones and spray them with glitter. When I went last time, a small bit of spray landed on our teacher. She said she looked like a Christmas fairy! We all nearly died laughing but I’m afraid it was because she is so portly that none of us could imagine her on top of a tree! On the way back I nearly slipped on a leaf—but thank the Lord, I managed to steady myself, so no damage was done!!! The key was very stiff in the door when I returned, but luckily I have the “knack,” so managed to get back to my snug home. I didn’t like to think what the neighbors would have thought had they witnessed me trying to “break and enter” my own house! I think I would have had some explaining to do to PC Plod—had he, of course, had the time to spare from catching speeding motorists to come to my aid!!!
    And on, and on and on.
    Think I may be getting a cold as have funny feeling like buzzing of bees at the back of my nose. Always a bad sign.
    Dec 25
    Oh God, oh God, oh God! Have had to spend the whole of Christmas Day in bed, as have such ghastly cough and cold and flu. I can barely drag myself downstairs or upstairs. I can’t even drink, which is a sign of how incredibly ill I am. For the last few days have thought I was going to die and I’ve felt extremely self-pitying. I take my temperature nearly every hour, just to see whether I have one or not. So far it’s below normal—which sometimes I think is worse than above. It is extraordinary that, even at nearly sixty, when one’s feeling down, one longs for one’s mum. When I’d taken to my bed a couple of days ago, I heard Michelle going up the stairs to her room to pack, past my bedroom, and realized she wasn’t going to put her head round the door and say “’Allo.” I found myself bursting into tears. I mean, why should she? I have told her enough times that we live separate lives. And I know that if I’d called out and asked her to get me anything, she would have jumped into loving and attentive action. But when one’s ill one doesn’t want to make the effort. No, we want to be cared for by people who are psychically attuned to our every desire. We want our mums.
    Sky outside is awful kind of green color.
    When I went to see my grandmother, Phyllis, in an old people’s home, several of the inmates were yelling for their mothers. After a few moments, which I spent sitting in the hall trying to read a Waitrose magazine, I was shown into the sitting room, where all the inhabitants were screaming and grimacing while, in the background, The Simpsons seemed to be playing on a loop. I realized I had no idea which one she was. None of the sad creatures had any teeth, their legs were all like sticks and every one of them, except the ones who were asleep, had wild, staring eyes and white hair. Finally I worked it out (well, I think I worked it out) and my grandmother (well, I hope it was my grandmother) was wheeled back to her room to have tea with me.
    Unfortunately, she had no idea who she was or who I was. She made absolutely no sense whatever, and kept pulling