The flat is quiet tonight for the first time in weeks. And all is well at the crib. Moments of silence have punctuated my day, allowing reflection.
Twenty five years ago, for many queer people, Christmas was a time when you left behind the people you loved and went to see your family. I am confident that is a truth for fewer queer people these days.
This year my family came to see me. And it was wonderful.
Three days (the fish rule) of good food, good wine, some silly games, familiarity and affection. And of course, love.
Other guests were here too. Families are very like gin. OK neat, but better diluted.
At the Christmas Day table we played a toasting game. Something I learned in Georgia. Person One toasts whatever comes to mind. Everyone repeats. Person Two repeats the first toast, then adds their own. Everyone repeats. Person Three... well you get the picture.
At our table we toasted (and this list is not exhaustive),
The fall of Capitalism; swallows; Kafka; Javier's grandmother; Brexit; the rise of the Radical Left; the downfall of Jeremy Corbyn; Nancy; William Shakespeare and Emily Pankhurst.
The last toast fell to a ten year old confident young woman who in a clear voice toasted "Feminism".
We all concurred and cheerfully toasted.
Except her mother, who leant over and whispered,
"Sweetheart, next time make it the Destruction of Patriarchy".
I love my family, and I love my friends.
Merry Christmas.
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