Getting the family together this year has been fraught with confusion and misunderstandings – much like the run up to Brexit
In my head, Christmas was completely sorted. Four households (except one was already bubbling with another, so there would be three), alike in dignity (well, I could probably draw up a dignity hierarchy, but that would be crossing the road to start a fight), all in the same tier (as of this moment, but there are rumours that London will soon be segregated into sectors, like postwar, pre-wall Berlin), would spend Christmas Day together. I should have written all that down a week ago. The sheer number of brackets would have been a clue that it might not be that simple. It all hinged on my mother and whether or not she would be well enough to leave her house at all. She changes her mind at least twice a day, like Scottish weather.
I filed this under “Yes, she’s coming”; my sister filed this under “Oh no, she isn’t”. It turns out, if you misunderstand one another enough on the simple things, you don’t need panto. We didn’t discuss it, because we are sisters, right, and therefore totally telepathic, except for all the times each week when we get the wrong end of the stick in so many ways that there is no right end, it is just the wrong stick.