Then there were six. As I write, Mrs U is off to our local butcher to pick up the massive and murderously expensive turkey she ordered many weeks ago, when we didn’t know how many to expect for lunch tomorrow.
We reckoned we’d be catering for an absolute minimum of a dozen, as in the past — and perhaps many more, once we’d totted up our four sons, their WAGs, the grandchildren, the odd in-law and one or two of my siblings and their young.
In hindsight I see that we should have waited to order the bird before we knew the numbers.
However, weeks back, you will recall that the BBC had reported on an imminent shortage of turkeys for Christmas. They attributed it to Brexit.
As I write, Mrs U is off to our local butcher to pick up the massive and murderously expensive turkey she ordered many weeks ago, when we didn’t know how many to expect for lunch tomorrow
All of these rumors, which are now well-known, were just as false as earlier fears about nationwide shortages loo papers, petrol, and bottled waters. How did we know?
Better safe than sorry, we thought (which seems, incidentally, to have been the Government’s dismal motto throughout most of this pandemic).
It would not be a good idea if all the tribe showed up at the event and there was nothing for them except baked beans and pizzas.
Blame
We had already paid the deposit for that huge bird, but our guest list started to shrink.
We were down to just ten people at our family reunion, which had previously been 20. Then Omicron struck — and this Tuesday, our married son rang to say that he, his wife and both our grandchildren had just tested positive for the bug, and they’d all have to self-isolate until next week.
Now we’re six. Who will next with 24 hours remaining? Any moment, another call might bring the news of another cancellation.
In fact, any of us living in London’s Lambeth could become the next victim of infection, as this is where we live with the highest rate of HIV in the country.
We reckoned we’d be catering for an absolute minimum of a dozen, as in the past — and perhaps many more, once we’d totted up our four sons, their WAGs, the grandchildren, the odd in-law and one or two of my siblings and their young
If the worst comes to the worst, it could be just the three of us — my wife and I and our one remaining resident son — sitting down to a turkey big enough to feed a battalion.
Like so many other families, trapped in this lockdown-in-all-but-name, I see January and February stretching ahead, with nothing to eat for every meal but turkey sandwiches, turkey risotto, turkey curry and turkey stir-fry. We’ll have turkey coming out of our ears.
You don’t have to look far for those who deserve the lion’s share of the blame for ruining so many family Christmases this year.
For it’s surely no coincidence that my borough, with that record infection rate, is also the local authority area with the highest proportion of anti-vaxxers in the country.
In fact, staggering 32.4 Percent of Lambeth residents refused the jab, for whatever reasons or none. Meanwhile, the local hospital bed-bound are filled with the unvaccinated.
Let’s not forget the bizarre question about why whole countries are suffering from the rapid spread of Covid within certain parts of capital.
Forget, too, that for the overwhelming majority of the vaccinated — every adult in my family included — the new Covid variant seems no more serious than a nasty cold.
(Speaking for myself, triple-jabbed as I am, I wouldn’t worry a bit if my infected son and his family were to join us for Christmas; but then they’ve always been less irresponsible than me.)
For once in my life, I find myself agreeing wholeheartedly with Tony Blair, when he said on Wednesday that anyone who is eligible for a vaccine, but hasn’t had one, is an ‘idiot’.
Doom and gloom
At first I felt sympathy for the Australian Government, New South Wales. It has toyed with the idea that the Covid treatment should be charged to unvaccinated patients.
Before I could realize that I was not entitled to be proud, I needed to take responsibility for what I wanted.
Once politicians start charging unvaccinated Covid victims for having made the wrong lifestyle choice, after all, how long before they extend the principle to the overweight — or, God forbid, to heavy smokers and drinkers like me?
It is best to allow the more severe disease that refuseniks are suffering as punishment for their antisocial behavior.
This pandemic is not just about the anti-vaxxers.
I’m thinking particularly of the relentlessly gloomy BBC — though other broadcasters are almost as bad — which has done so much to put the wind up the public.
Even on Wednesday, the day when no fewer than five studies reached the happy conclusion that the Omicron variant isn’t nearly as dangerous as everyone had feared — the Corporation led its bulletins with the almost meaningless news that daily Covid ‘cases’ had topped 100,000 for the first time.
We were not told by anyone how many people who died from the Omicron variant of Omicron disease, which is a rare condition. We were not told their age or any other ailments they might be suffering.
The official line remains: ‘We don’t comment on individual cases.’
We’re sorry. We’re not asking for names, or anything else that might identify the people who have died with Covid. But is it really too much to ask if they might have died of something else — old age, for example, like my adored 99-year-old mother-in-law — so that we can make up our own minds about the severity of the risk we face?
Jeopardy
However, this is not the case. When it comes to reporting the pandemic, the policy of broadcasters, officials and Ministers alike is to turn the old song on its head: ‘Accentuate the negative/ Eliminate the positive.’
Now, I won’t pretend it breaks my heart that, once again this Christmas, I’ll be denied the joys of a house jam-packed with screaming, over-excited children and fractious aunts and in-laws who may have drunk more than is strictly good for domestic harmony.
Believe me, I know countless people are suffering far worse than the Utleys from the current scare — not least those who will be alone this Christmas and workers in industries such as hospitality whose livelihoods are in jeopardy once again.
However, I have a special request. Next week, politicians permitting, I’ll be at my mother-in-law’s funeral in Oxfordshire. You mustn’t take this the wrong way, when I say that I’ve been much looking forward to it.
Of course it will be a very sad occasion — that should go without saying. But a well-attended funeral, in a church packed with people united in love and grief for the dead, can also be hugely uplifting — a celebration of a life well lived, as much as an occasion for mourning.
Please, please, my old friend Boris, don’t lose your nerve. Don’t give in to the doom-mongers who urge you to repeat the cruel policy of the earlier lockdowns, when so many mourners were forced to witness the funerals of their loved ones via Zoom. It’s not the same thing at all.
Let’s give my mother in law and all those like it the farewell they deserve.
With that, I wish my long-suffering readers as merry a Christmas as the Government permits — and a prosperous, happy and healthy New Year.
You can also find leftover turkey at my relatives and friends.