'Tis the Season

          If you’re the sort of person who depends on daily routines to keep you on the straight and narrow, then the chaotic end-of-year holiday period must be quite a challenge. Far from feeling flat when it’s all over, you might well relish the resumption of ‘normality’.

          This year, we didn’t avoid the festivities by going abroad as we usually do. Instead, we drew up a plan to remain and work with the situation. So, we participated in some of the revelries, avoided others and paid respectful homage to traditions with the degree of restraint you might expect of those who have reservations about their provenance. We threw a house party and justified it to ourselves as marking the solstice, though I don’t suppose anyone really cared about the reason: a party is a party, after all – especially during the catchall “festive season”.

          For me, the first event of said season was when our University of the Third Age philosophy discussion group devoted its last session to a lunch. It wasn’t a highbrow affair: there was everyday banter, tinged with a few jokes at the expense of the great philosophers and what felt like an appropriate toast to Epicurus, though his stated principle of pursuing pleasure is widely misunderstood by those (especially heavy drinkers) who are unaware of his balancing principle, that of exercising prudence to avoid future pain.

          Talking of pain, it hasn’t all been fun. On Christmas Eve, I suffered an attack of trigeminal neuralgia (severe pain, akin to toothache, in one side of the upper and lower jaw). It’s one of those oddly intermittent afflictions that are difficult to treat. It’s also difficult to say, for me, at least. So, having settled upon the malapropism “trigonomic nostalgia”, I came across some curious information regarding nostalgia which, until the 19^th century, was considered to be a serious medical condition. For example, during the American Civil War, 5,200 cases were recorded in the Union Army and 74 deaths attributed to it. Nostalgia, of course, ain’t what it used to be but, when the doctors return to work on Monday, I will just check that I don’t have the fatal variety.

         On the big day itself, we set off in the campervan for St Ives, where we hiked for a while along the rugged coast path, nourished by sandwiches and reassured by a handy supply of paracetamol. Later, a walk through the seaside town revealed that tradition was solid: only the pubs and hotels were open (for lunch). The public toilets were locked up and posted with notices declaring closure until the 27^th. There, at least, the sanctity of those two holidays remains unchallenged. We retreated to our snug campervan, hunkered down, all alone, in a small, sheltered field, where we cracked open the Champagne and celebrated our solitude.

          We lingered in the area until the 27^th, when the Tate St Ives opened its doors and I was able to get a fix of the kind of art that resonates most with my aesthetic preference – mid-century modern. Then we headed home to rejoin the social melee. By this time, my neuralgic pain had receded both in frequency and intensity, with just the occasional twinge to remind me of its presence.  Meanwhile, there was fun to be had at our block, where a round-the-world bar-crawl was planned for New Year’s Eve. Participating neighbours themed their apartments (ours was Greece) and opened up to all-comers for a pre-allocated half-hour slot. Despite some dodgy cultural stereotyping and a level of alcohol consumption that Epicurus would have advised against, the evening proved good for bonding with our neighbours and, as a bonus, having a nosey around their flats.

          Now, festivities are at an end, normality is nigh and I can relax into my routines. I’ll be able to see the GP about my nostalgia, one of the symptoms being a feeling that I’m going to miss the fairy lights and tinsel.