Three, two, one, and you're back in the room.
Time flies, even during a pandemic.
Unbelievably, September segued into December and thoughts have now turned to Christmas.
Daily life in the gap has been.... what? Unremarkable? Mundane? Predictable? Confined? Stressful? All of that.
I haven't ventured far, just to the shops for essentials (including highly essential takeaway pizza and rosemary fries), evening walks round the neighbourhood and the occasional foray into the woods or park during daylight hours (thus avoiding an encounter with Shovelly Joe in the dark).
Halloween came and went. The huge uncarved pumpkin languished in the garage until I eventually chopped about half of it into chunks which were popped into the freezer and will be added to to soups and other veg for roasting. If I remember they're there.
Bonfire Night was louder than ever and the dog, who celebrated his 10th birthday a few days later, went into panic stricken meltdown despite sedation. When it was all over, I needed sedation.
Some of the traditional pre-festive period activities have happened as usual. With only a fleeting thought about who will eat it, a Christmas cake using my dad's recipe and tin has been made, the pud has been steamed (though I forgot to make a wish as I was stirring the mixture), Nigella's chutney decanted into jars (just the two, one for me, one for a friend) and the ingredients for mince pies are ready and waiting (if I make them too far in advance, I scoff the lot).
The tree was chosen and has been delivered (it's currently sitting in a tub of water in the garage) and a wreath ('Christmas Carol') collected from the loveliest of florists.
Having confirmed the five year old littlest is still a fan of knitted animals ('Granny teddies'), I've made another, a dog (with a hint of lamb) to add to his much cuddled (their poor little lolling necks suffer most; I empathise - see below) collection.
Of course, books and reading have featured, though it's still a struggle to maintain focus. A new-to-me author I discovered was Chris Whitaker, a British crime fiction writer whose novels are based in very convincing small town America. His diverse characters are beautifully crafted, staying with you long after you've finished reading, and there's such a strong sense of time and place. Highly recommended.
Currently on the bedside table is a collection of festive reads, a mix of old favourites and new titles. Not usually a fan of the short story, I'm rather enjoying making my way through several Christmas themed anthologies, one story a night along with the appropriate diary entry from Nigel's Chronicles.
I've also done something I swore I'd never do again. I wielded an assortment of brushes and rollers, wobbled on the ladder and painted. The dining room. As soon as I started to paint the ceiling, my rickety neck protested. Loudly. Honestly, it sounded like someone was scrunching half a dozen packets of crisps.
The chosen colour scheme was far from ambitious, just white on somewhat dingy white, but there are no drips and it does look fresher. I'm chuffed, actually. More pictures have been added to one of the walls, including one which will serve as a memento (just in case I need to be reminded) of these weird times, and I bought a new floor lamp, which I love as it's big, bold, lights up the table area and means we won't need to use the ceiling light.
As the virus continues to rage around the globe, Christmas 2020 is likely to be very different for most if not all of us. (One of my friends and her husband, celebrating as a twosome, will be tucking into pies and peas, something they love but rarely eat, for Christmas lunch).
Being sensibly cautious in the spirit of we've come this far, let's not blow it, we won't be hosting a family celebration and littlest and his parents will be staying in Manchester. But in the run up to the Big Day, we'll meet at some midway point along the motorway to hand over gifts (no doubt with accompanying tears, I've won awards for producing those) and homemade nut roast.
Then, my Boy will be here in the bubble of three to join in all the festive overindulging (I've been dreaming of making my way through a box of chocolate liqueurs which I never buy, so what's that all about?), trounce me at Scrabble, entertain the feline troops, generally lighten the atmosphere (which, believe me, sometimes warrants some input from Butlin Redcoats).
And, you never know, maybe Different Christmas will generate some new traditions.
Chocolate liqueur, anyone?