Boxing Day- nowhere to go.

 Boxing Day- nowhere to go.

It's early afternoon here in North London and, generally speaking, there's little in the way of any activity or movement on the streets and roads. For reasons that baffle some there were small rivers of traffic flowing past the local traffic lights and for some of us, this made little sense. Christmas Day on the roads of Great Britain were traditionally deserted and only the birds that perch on rooftops before flying off in orderly formation, were stirring. Yesterday was no different.

On Boxing Day the West End of London normally bursts into a paradise of capitalism, a richly uplifting sight of hustling and bustling folk on both Oxford and Regent Street. Today marks the beginning of the sales season, as is normally the case. It is hard to gauge either the prosperity or poverty among the good people of the world. We are now told that Britain is well and truly skint and destitute, not a penny to its name and the struggle to pay off those essential bills has never been more painful. In fact, if you were to believe some, we have to yet to encounter darkness, power cuts, fuel and electricity at its most premium.

The truth of the matter is that, to quote, a former Prime Minister, we've never had it so good. The big, influential department shops are heaving with affluent, middle class families who have at least four Jaguars in their gravelled drive ways, at least 17 bathrooms with gold taps, 14 dining rooms with the finest bone china, crockery and cutlery, mahogany cabinets in every room in the house and a butler for every meal. But this is surely nonsense although such close knit communities probably do exist.

It has been a year tinged horribly with sadness and sorrow. In early September Britain lost its most deeply loved and revered monarch when Her Majesty the Queen died, a nation falling into sombre reflection and mourning for the best part of a fortnight. At that moment the tourist industry in Britain went into a deep state of shock. What on earth would they do with all those mugs, tea towels, plates, bowls, postcards and every conceivable ornament with Her Majesty's face adorning these much cherished ornaments?

And yet we are still here, fighting fit, optimistic that the future has to be filled with brightness and better days since they could hardly get any worse. We're alive and that's a blessing. It's a privilege to be here and nobody could deny that we should be grateful for everything that we have. That now lengthy period since Covid 19 restrictions fell by the wayside permanently, seems like an age ago. Of course normal service has been restored and how good that feels. But the sense of recovery and revival of spirits may have had caveats and cautionary warnings at the back of our minds.

Every so often we're reminded of the precautions we should take if we find ourselves cramped together in tight, claustrophobic groups. The trains and buses are more or less free of masks both fashionable and unfashionable but the underlying nerves, paranoias, anxieties are still bubbling away under the surface. Hospitals have every right to be careful, vigilant and responsible but there is a sense now that we can still go about our every day business without being followed by park ranger vans telling us to finish our walk and go home as quickly as possible. The ghost of George Orwell seemed to reside in all of us.

But come on everybody today is Boxing Day and that could only mean one thing. Yes folks, it's Boxing Day and its pantomime season. Oh yes it is. Oh no it isn't. It's time for Dick Whittington, Jack and the Beanstalk, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs or Aladdin. Now it's been many a decade ago since my wife and yours truly took our little darlings to their first pantomime at the Hackney Empire but the magic, mystique, tradition, the harmless innuendos, the hilarious behind you comments still echo powerfully around the many theatres dotted around the country.

The whole concept of pantomime used to be as relevant as Victorian garden parties and cabriolets taking their passengers to the latest edition of the good, old fashioned pantomime. But here we are at the end of 2022 and the things we used to take for granted are no longer regarded as such. The cynics will insist that the trains that used to run on time on Christmas Day are just faded, sepia tinted memories. And whatever happened to the gallons of snow that would fall elatedly to the ground on Christmas Day. Why do our kids still complain about their presents and why is Christmas Day on TV simply an empty wasteland of dull mediocrity?

For some of us Christmas Day used to be synonymous with the geniuses who were the Two Ronnies and Morecambe and Wise preceded wonderfully by Bruce Forsyth's Generation Game. Sadly, the days of music hall that were once a breeding ground for these fabulous entertainers have now vanished into thin air. True, the BBC did give us a Strictly Come Dancing Christmas special but even that must have felt like the curling leftovers of the family turkey to some. But then again nostalgia ain't what it used to be.

You can be sure though that extended families with their usual mix of uncles, aunties, cousins, nieces and old pals from way back when, are still predominant figures in our lives. Admittedly you never see their likes from one year to the next but come Christmas back they come again. They still snore contentedly on their sofas while all around them disorganised chaos reigns. The kids will keep scurrying around in states of constant excitement and whole rooms will resemble battlegrounds of sleep, exhaustion, inertia, yawning and general bloatedness. Why on earth did we eat and drink so much when quite clearly we'll all be told to wake up, do the washing in  the kitchen and tidy up.

But Boxing Day is upon us yet again and somehow it still feels like New Years Day 2022. You can still hear the bagpipes in our hotel in the glorious surrounds of Dumfries and Scotland. Oh yes and they were allowed to dance on the dancing floor on New Year's Eve. Even the last days of Covid couldn't stop the enthusiastic guests from putting their best foot forward. Come on everybody it is Christmas or to be precise Boxing Day. It happens at the end of every year. We could hardly resist a jolly old party. Mine's an orange juice.