Some time in late December 2020, the year when the world was left stunned by SARS Covid-19, I wailed in a tweet that I never wanted to be be this far away from home at Christmas again. And yet here I was, a year later, facing the prospect of Christmas not only far from home but alone.

Having spent 11 weeks of the autumn away and leaving the dogs in the tender care of MsJ, I couldn’t justify leaving her alone again so soon while I partied with friends and family in the UK, particularly since she has not been able to hug her own children for over two and a half years. The plan was that John could go home and be reunited with James and Eliza there as they are not allowed to come to HK. The offspring have both spent Christmas alone in the last few years. This year it was just my turn.

I am happy in my own company and there’s always some form of electronic social entertainment. MsJ would be here most of the time anyway so I was never going to be properly alone but it would be a quiet, minimalistic Christmas and all the better for it.

It crept up on me, though, after the Mass in B Minor concert, in the form of four – FOUR – batches of mince pies most of which disappeared into MsJ, who developed a craving for them.

There was no Christmas cake and only the vague thought of Christmas pudding on Stir Up Sunday. I ordered a 3kg duck, just in case John was stuck here, his London flight cancelled, and we put up our lights and our IKEA tree, a lone present for me underneath it.

Carolling is one of my favourite parts of Christmas so I signed up to perform a couple of rather dull sets at The Peninsula. This being the Bach Choir, there were no secular seasonal favourites, though mercifully no Jingle Bells (“Go it while you can…”) or Frozen. The performance went well enough, though felt insignificant when compared with my wonderful memory of singing in St. George’s Beckenham with full congregation, Adult Choir, Bromley Youth Concert Band (including both of my offspring), one of the army bands (I forget which) and full organ accompaniment, with us first sopranos trilling the descants over the top of everyone. Everything is so much smaller and more low-key now and, really, I was lucky to be able to sing at all, given the last couple of years.

I slept on the sofa in a sleeping bag on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day so that I could hear Oscar when he cried for help to be hoisted to his feet and change position during the night. I cooked the duck for Christmas lunch with MsJ and yes I’m still eating it.

As it turned out, James was not able to secure Permanent Residence status in Canada because of Covid and therefore could not leave, and Eliza was working in Edinburgh across the holiday so there we were on the day, four of us in four different countries. I’m not going to wallow here. So many people have had it far worse, but I do miss them all.

John spent it alone dealing with the aftermath of the death of his stepmother, Alison, early on Christmas Day from the complications of a long illness, and also with the cancellations of all of his FIVE alternative return flights to HKG. He’s now booked on a flight back next week but who knows whether that will actually take off?

So mine will be another quiet New Year’s Eve, sleeping on the sofa again. I have bought another mini bottle of Moët to accompany my continuing duck leftovers. Let me wish you a Happy New Year, dear Reader. Is it tempting fate to hope that next year will be happier and healthier and better for all of us?