Because we were strongly promised (maybe) 5 days off covid restrictions, which made absolutely no sense until I realised that covid has been working 24/7 for months, globally, so most likely had put in a holiday request, which had been approved, I set about making plans.
Option A was a 3 to 4 night stay with the ‘rents, which included Columbo, long dog walks, and eye-rolling.
Option B was a Christmas Eve night stay, which included a dog walk and less eye-rolling.
Option C was a Christmas Day visit, which included a socially distanced present exchange, a socially distanced dog walk, and no time for eye-rolling.
While A was my preference, mostly for it stopping my neck from getting it, I was quite partial to C — a flying visit would’ve been better than a kick in the teeth, at least the pain would’ve been less enduring.
As it happened, BoJo and what’s-his-name (the Welsh First Minister) threw a spanner in the works by last minute rejecting poor covid’s holiday.
So option D it was!
Staying at home with Shaun and the support bubble.
It turned out, against my best guesses (based on past experience), Christmas in a bubble wasn’t half bad.
The bubble was louder than I’m used to.
More hectic than any other Christmas I’ve ever had.
Less furniture to use, too.
But strip that away, what’s left was a perfect week-to-go ending for 2020.
My ears are still ringing from the screaming, mind.
Also, these 2am starts at work have been a killer.
It’s likely, if I didn’t need to be in bed by 8pm, or if there was a mute button on certain people, there would’ve been no need to strip for perfection.