A line is a line is a line

When I first got Covid I was telling people how lucky it was that it had never been planned for family to come here for Christmas, but that the-family-member-who-declines-to-be-named and the lovely Jaine and their brand new baby had invited me to go to them on Boxing Day. How lucky was I?

And Zoë had invited me to her house at the end of Christmas week for a gathering (which included the new baby.) Double the luck.

But yesterday, Christmas Day, was day 13 of Covid and I was still feeling well below par. I had planned a nice Christmas dinner (for one, as Dave was having yoghurt, though he'd offered to sit with me) but I had not had the energy/motivation to iron the tablecloth, nor find a more suitably festive centrepiece.

But maybe, I thought,  the test would prove negative today, Boxing Day, and I could go to Sheffield and cuddle my newest grandchild. 

But there's a line. A faint line. A very faint line. But a line is a line is a line when the health of a newborn is at stake. So I'm here, sitting at my new desk, writing to you. 

And by the way, I’ve realised that the way to have a clear desk is to have such a small one that you have to action things and then throw them away or file them because there is nowhere to pile them.  But there is still enough room for my parents' last Christmas cards, which I bring out every year.

I woke up feeling rough, and then there was the disappointment of the line, but I sat in bed and read this year's blog posts from winter into spring, and they cheered me up. Gosh I do feel blue so often about the state of the world, but I get through, and there is plenty of joy to be had.

from Maggie Smith's book Keep Moving

 

Line or no line, the sun is shining and I can go out for a local, gentle walk. I'm what my mother-in-law used to call 'a lucky jigger.'

Happy Boxing Day to you, dear friends.