To firmly establish a new personal algorithm for send-outs, and in the name of research, I get in touch with a friend I haven’t seen or spoken to for 20 years but with whom I swapped Christmas cards for at least 15 of them. I don’t remember who blinked first, but we both let the festive lines of communication drop about the same time. I reckon 2017.
Doing some digital digging, I discover I last emailed her in 2009, so I hit reply and change the subject box to ‘Long shot’. My message reads, ‘I’ll be amazed if this reaches you, but in case it does, I would love you to reply with a confirmation. Jan xx’.
Within an hour I hear back: ‘Be amazed! It’s reached me! How wonderful to hear from you… too many questions! But I can confirm I’m here! xx’.
‘A miracle has occurred,’ I declare. ‘I know this sounds random, but may I ring you for a quick chat? Don’t worry, I’m not going to rope you into pyramid selling.’
‘I’m doing bugger all, so if it is pyramid selling, I’m in.’ How. Bloody. Brilliant. In that compressed convo, the rapport was still there. Welcome to my quest for some qualitative inquiry, the lovely Kate.
The next day we chat. For ages. And try to pinpoint what prompted us to go incommunicado at Christmas. Kate puts it down to doubt as to where I was living (she may, of course, just be being polite). She does, however, keep a small basket of old Christmas cards that offer a potential paper trail back to lost souls and my travel-inspired, self-printed efforts are still there. ‘That little basket of cards means those people haven’t totally gone from my life,’ she says.
Why did I stop sending to her? I was either following my mum’s eccentric etiquette or Kate was a victim of a particularly long mailing list that year and disappeared from my print queue in an expedient puff of smoke.
Whatever the real reason, we reminisce. Mainly about a work trip to a Scottish castle where we spent much of the time watching the 1998 World Cup – the one when David Beckham was shown a red card and we lost to Argentina on penalties.
That night, dejected, we sat round a bonfire on the beach while someone played Danny Boy on the accordion. Even now, I can’t hear ‘the pipes, the pipes are calling’ without seeing Kate’s sad eyes staring at the embers.
As we look back, it dawns on us how our age group often thinks of the years from the start of the millennium to now as relatively recent history, believing it was the ’80s and ’90s that carried the most clout in shaping our lives. But as Kate points out, it’s during the last two decades that we’ve done, seen and achieved the most.
Not least, she’s had three children, aged 14, 16 and 18 and is now the shortest person in her household. Crikey. When you never see people’s offspring, in your head, they remain four years old – it’s always a shocker when you ask after little Liam and it turns out he’s a pilot for EasyJet.
I’m glad we spoke. There were no awkward pauses. No trying to impress. Only gratitude for times we shared and for talking again. It also helped me reach a conclusion. It’s the friends you never see who might well be the most deserving of a card – the perfect way to capitalise on the low-commitment cordiality of Christmas. To touch someone’s life fleetingly, comfortingly, positively.
So here’s the plan. I’m going to continue the pretence I might drag my sorry arse over to Hampshire. And I’m vowing to maintain all holiday connections, including the 80-something lady from New York who, when I injured my knee near the Mongolian-Kazakhstan border, helped pack it with frozen prawn balls to take the swelling down.
And lastly, dear Kate, I have just one thing to announce. You’re back on the list. The card is winging its way and we must meet up next year. No really, we must. Because we’ve gone public now. I’ll keep you posted…
