I refer to the so-called Festive Season. Myself, I quite enjoyed it – although it wasn’t so good for Anne and her father, who both caught Norovirus. Somehow I avoided it.

We went up to Wirral to see Mum before Christmas, then endured a long and complicated train journey home (storm damage to the overhead cables), although I am sure travelling by car would have been no better.

We had a decently merry, if unexceptional, Christmas. We bought and decorated a tree, we had a few neighbours round, we sent and received a respectable number of greetings cards, we watched a lot of TV, and Anne’s homemade cake was a triumph.

Presents were exchanged on Christmas Eve. I got exactly what I wanted: inexpensive studio headphones, both newly-remastered Beatles compilation CDs (red and blue), a posh pair of slippers, the Sly Stone autobiography, and a Gant rugby shirt (as last year, the year before, and the year before that). Thank you, Anne and David.

After an excellent fish dish, a gloriously glutinous pudding went into a hot oven.

A loud bang followed, and the kitchen lights went out

And so, with no working oven at home, Christmas dinner was relocated to my father-in-law’s flat, just down the road. First we had a pint in our local, The Half Moon – on the house, thanks to the generous manager, Matt. Dinner went well, thanks to Anne’s careful planning. Then Norovirus struck. More than enough excitement, if less eating, as it turned out.

But all that was nearly a fortnight ago. As of this morning, the tree and cards are ready for recycling, and the lights and decorations are back in the cupboard. Only a large chunk of cake remains to be dealt with.

***

If you thought the silly season for journalists was high summer you haven’t read the papers at Christmas. I am not referring to the patchy coverage of the appalling wars and other disasters taking place but to the contributions of those who earn a crust by sharing their wit and wisdom: “My review of the year”, or “What I’d like to see in 2024”, or “My new year’s resolutions”, and so on. But as I skimmed the Sunday Times magazine, I came across one of those father-and-son interviews – and a phrase jumped out at me.

Celebrate the future more

I’m not sure exactly what it means but I like the sound of it. And, while you are at it, try to quit dwelling on the losses of the past. If you read this blog regularly you’ll know that I write principally about what I’ve done and what I is going through my mind. It’s not intentionally gloomy reading but it is focussed on myself and the past, be it near or distant.

I have struggled with negative thinking over the last few years. I know it’s not just me; it’s been a tough few years for many people and there are lots of factors at play. One of these, if you have reached your late 60s, is accepting that the best part of your life is behind you. Even if you’d rather not think about it, you know that you only have few (good) years left.

Could be 10… or 20, if you are fortunate

It is scary to see how quickly the years go by, and the effects of age on your mind and body. You have less energy. Ailments and injuries take longer to heal, if they heal at all. You forget things that you really shouldn’t. Witnessing the decline and demise of elderly parents is sad… and we are next! Celebrating the future can be hard, because difficult personal circumstances and the current state of the world are liable to make us believe that things can only get worse, not better.

But I resolve not to over-think it. Whilst it must be a mistake to think too far ahead, delving continually into one’s past will lead to brooding on missed opportunities, errors of judgement, unresolvable guilt and sheer bad luck.

The only way is forward

***

So I am looking forward to the rest of 2024, which still has 360 days to go. Obviously plans may have to change, but… we are off to the theatre next week; we have a trip to India coming up; then there’s a gig in Oxford to launch another album; we are pensioner-interrailing round the Balkans in the summer; we have tickets to Olympic football in Bordeaux. And there’s more: Tranmere are on a good run and Scotland are in the finals of the Euros. Reasons to be cheerful. What’s more, I’ll be with my lovely wife, Anne (who, despite appearances, is not taller than me).

If a few things go wrong, it is only to be expected. Hopefully they won’t be serious, but there are no guarantees. It’s a given that we all have to die someday, possibly all at the same time if world affairs get much worse, so let’s make the most of the life we have. I’m going to remind myself every day to “celebrate the future”. We shall see if I manage to stick to it. You are very welcome to join me.

I’ve just written another of those facile, silly-season columns.