A Journal of the Plague Year 3.0 Day 8

24th December 2020

So I’ve wrapped all my pressies and tidied, and retired the appropriate drinks in the fridge for the big day tomo. I have received some vouchers online, and a mysterious parcel in the post, literally collected from the concierge as he was shutting shop for the next few days (he reopened gawd bless him). D will come round in late morning for a late Xmas lunch, we decided on an afternoon meal otherwise we’d be blind drunk by dinner, throwing turkeys off the roof and baiting Santa or summink.

I’m not sure what the Xmas movie will be, maybe the new Netflix thing with George Clooney, and the meme of astronauts on a space station as killer debris tears it apart (from the trailer anyway). That was so impressively done in Gravity, then Interstellar they can’t miss the opportunity a third time it seems. My other option or course, is Elf.

Across the continent (so near yet now so far) it’s this that’s the big event, when carol singers go door to door for sweets and pressies get opened, plus the big meal before midnight. Over here magic only settles on the 25th, where we swan about looking at things in disbelief that they’re happening on The Day, so long built up to as Michael McIntyre has noticed. Look at those people driving their car, On Christmas Day. Look at that tree standing there, On Christmas Day. Ohmigod is that robin, a robin!¡dear jeezusjizz on Christmas Day.

D will be our plus one, allowed as a support bubble according to the rules as he lives alone. Other than prepping the big lunch, opening pressies, getting pissed and the Xmas movie, there’s also the board game I bought long, long ago at the start of Lockdown 2 in October and never used. Not to forget, the skype session with fam, that will likely drag on for over an hour. I’d better try and do that sober.

The news just in -good news or at least a semblance of it, is that we did reach a deal in the Brexit malarkey. I don’t know if that just means we sacrifice a dolphin on Charles de Gaulle’s birthday, or get to call Brussel sprouts Brummie cabbages from now on, but it’s better than No Deal No Entry, the bit in the gameshow where the losing contestants get doused in petrol and set alight. All in time with France reopenink the border innit in Kent. To EU nationals with a clean health card (dear lord, thank fuck), notably the 30,000 HGV drivers stuck on an impromptu caravan holiday in the Downs. Though at the rate of 45 minutes to two days processing per driver as they load em on, it’ll take 3 years to get them all out in time for Xmas 2024, if we still have boats by then, or you know, are alive after the famine. It’s likely thousands will spend Xmas day here, forlorn in their cabs with a view of some Margate verge.

So everything now done and dusted, A‘s having a nap, so I’m at a loss of what to do. I’ve forbidden myself to Youtube as it gets me down, angry, empty or weird. Same with forums and news sites, that makes my life smaller now rather than larger. And social media is an odious viper that needs treating with a stick.

I might have to read, by candle light and whatnot. It’s getting cold- below freezing tonight, and a blanket may be in order, plus a whispering frame of a fireplace on the box. Am very sorely tempted into sneaking another mince pie – a Black Forest version from Lidl with some spray on cream. And Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

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