In the dark days before Christmas, there seems to be a preponderance of articles about the joys of Christmases past filled with people and fun. Like me, many of these columnists and writers are missing the busyness of family life and relatives long gone. I dreamed of my Dad not once but twice this week. I find myself unable to write in my usual style of blog. There is a lot of uncertainty in these ongoing pandemic times. The usual emotional ups and downs are underscored by the turmoil in the news and events around the world. Last year was tough. This year there was hope and it is that that makes this Christmas particularly important. Christmas is a celebration of love and hope. We may not be able to party like it’s 1999 but we can still meet, eat and enjoy the company of others. And remember those who have no others to meet.
One of the highlights of this week, was catching up on the excellent drama ‘Mrs Wilson’ based on real events. Was Mr Wilson a spy? I hope Mrs Wilson’s family find the answers they are seeking. What I found intriguing, was that the programme reminded me of a job I had working for the Department of Industry back in 1979. The bright lights of London had seduced me out of my country life and I relished walking past shops filled with the latest fashions and being amongst the throngs of commuters rushing for a train. I must admit to feeling a bit bemused though when I saw the might Thames emptied by the tide. Sadly, I had no time to visit the Tate Gallery on my lunch breaks, which was next to the office in which I worked. The Official Secrets Act binds me still yet what I learned is on the Web. The file on Mr Wilson is still under wraps. The unknown unknowns haunt us all.
What to do? Buy flowers. Bright flowers, perhaps the early daffodils from Cornwall, and adorn the home with colour. Celebrate the Solstice, the old Saturnalia and the newer Christmas. All are symbols of hope. Love and hope.