It’s a few days after Christmas and we are in a cottage in Devon. It is raining and the whole place smells of bacon. I haven’t written in a while, mostly because November and December were both social engagement tsunamis and so my usual end-of-the-month need to purge myself bloggingly of my stories and worries and little incidences of no consequence passed me by.

What must I record here? I have checked my calendar on my phone and it is a series of greyed-out two word entries like ‘Fiona Inge’, ‘Rebecca Mayfair’, ‘4:30 smear’, ‘4:30 police’, “Remi River’, ‘Hair @9’, ‘Underwear’, ‘Erdem’, ‘Muppets’. This translates to:

Drinks at Fionas to thank Inge for all of the incredibly hardworking for the PTA; a Sunday afternoon stroll through Hyde Park to watch Saltburn at the Curzon Mayfair; smear test (all clear); a police followup on the (second) attempted mugging of Ned which was scheduled to happen three times but never did; a paydate for Remi on a houseboat on the Grand Union Canal; a haircut, colour, treatment, and two cocktails in Portobello; the Erdem sample sale that yielded me a silver dress I have been wearing everywhere (photo to follow); our third consecutive year attending en masse the Prince Charles Theatre singalong screening of The Muppet’s Christmas Carol, which ended in a delightful meal in Chinatown with two Peking Ducks and £67 worth of fried rice.

That’s just a snippet – there were parties and houseguests and The Royal Albert Hall and sightings of Stella McCartney’s entire tribe at the local Chinese restaurant and work dramas and Borough Market for the sabich sandwich and Remi and Otis’s nativity services and operating the cake stall at the primary school Christmas fair and attempting to view the Christmas lights in Carnaby Street. It was relentless and tiring and I just had to remind myself that by mid January I would be all lonely and a little bored, waiting for the Antipodeans to return from blindingly hot Sydney and thinking about throwing my own party with ham and fizzy wine and a massive cake so I would have something to do and some people to talk to.

A bit of Carnaby Street for your viewing pleasure:

The Gospel Messiah:

More lights:

Remi as ‘the green wise man’:

Me in the sample sale Erdem:

Otis and Anna showing off their hand sewn Bob Cratchitt and Tiny Tim sweatshirt homages to Santa (and not winning the prize which seems extremely Scrooge-like of that particular Santa who instead gave the prize to two men in Primark Christmas jumpers with a tinsel boa):

Taking up nearly the entire back row:

All of that aside, Barnaby returned home from his first term away at university and we tried various musical beds until we found a solution to the not-enough-beds-anymore situation. Barnaby has now nabbed Remi’s bed and Remi has swapped it for a little nooky den carved out in our room where he is effectively camping until Barnaby returns to Nottingham in a month’s time. The nooky den used to be Mark’s ‘special corner’ where his golf clubs, vintage train sets, car seat covers, old maps, files, toner cartridges, guitars, etc, used to just kind of pile up, so much so that he hasn’t been able to get into half of his wardrobe for years. So Barnaby’s return heralded a good clearout of which we (me – ME) are all immensely grateful for. I have, over the piling-up years, just learned not to ‘see’ that part of our room. I turn my back and gaze upon my half which is full of delightful boudoir-ish things like perfume stacked on a vintage tray and artwork and jewellery hanging on vintage Murano candelabra and artfully piled books and an awful lot of dust. Miss Haversham-like layers of dust which I sometimes try to clean with a damp cloth but mostly ignore.

So we are all together again and the months Barnaby has been away has signalled a seachange in the family dynamics. Last Christmas, two of the boys had a huge physical fight which ended up in three of us crying, banishment, stolen beer and vengeful drunkenness (not mine, btw), and avowals of fraternal hatred which I feared would never fade. But in the year since then, and solidified over the physical distance of one moving out, peace has restored. I have praised both culprits/usual suspects for prioritising harmony and practising restraint and tolerance and above all else, showing a maturity that I feared would never manifest, Both our families have fracturing which have partly stemmed from teenage resentments and old hurts, and sometimes these just don’t go away. I have spoken to all the kids about this and asked them not to let that happen with us. So far, nearly two weeks in, the boys have orbited around each other respectfully and tolerantly, and I really hope the sharp edges of all that piled on, hair-triggered fury have softened enough to no longer be a constant threat.

So instead we have had good times. Swimming and spa pooling, a trip to the dunes at Woolacombe, a few pub meals, a Christmas movie every night (Die Hard, Love Actually, Four Christmases, tonight’s choice not yet decided), charity shopping in Barnstable, Secret Santa, Christmas morning church service at St Stephens in Tawstock. Today, the plan is to raid Sainsbury’s for more ham and batteries, half prices crackers, and no doubt some more sparkling wine.

Here’s the pool:

Boxing Day beaching:

On Friday, we drive back to the flat to see what 2024 will bring. In January last year we got The Bad Tax News, and in summer the You’ll Have to Find Another Flat Because We Are Renovating News (this is as yet unresolved, leading us to pretend it might never happen. Ha! Wail!) There were kidney stones, cysts and MRIs and a neck that has ceased to work properly, unrelenting work stresses, and emergency trips home to see elderly ill parents. There were necessary fundamental financial changes to make. Teenage breakups to witness, too many school things forgotten (odd sock day, an art exhibition, a school trip or two), regular martial fights over domestic chores, a dog with a terrifyingly huge fatty lump which is probably too big to remove but surely too big with live with. This year has been hard work, amongst all of the wonderful things and the constant joyful drumbeat of having a big family.

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Thank you for still coming back to this neglected little nooky den where I pile all of my stuff that probably needs a good sorting out.