Unless you die before it happens, there comes a point in every person’s life where your eyes are too far gone to write your own Christmas cards, and someone else has to do it for you. My aunt did it for my uncle, then my mum did it for my aunt, and now I’m doing it for my mum.
We’re off to a strong start – I’ve got as far as “Dear John”, when she says: “No, John died! He died 18 months ago,” then, beadily, “what have you written?”, as if I’ve done something outlandishly yet characteristically stupid.
“It’s fine,” I say. “We’ll just throw it away and start again.”
“It’s a terrible waste of a card,” she objects.
“This whole enterprise is a waste of card.”
“One of my favourite cards, though!”
Then I have a brainwave: I’m going to send this card to John and Norma Major.
“Do you have their address?”
“Nope, I’m just going to send it to their local cricket club.”
“What are you going to say?”
“I’ll say: ‘I think you did OK on Brexit, but the cones hotline was stupid.’”
“OK, good.”
After that, I am careful to check all parties are alive before I start writing, which unleashes a tide of medical information so detailed that I could perform surgery on all her friends myself. It always ends: “But now they’re fine. Fit as a flea.”
She wants to write something more than “Love, G”, but she can’t write “Merry Christmas” because that’s already printed in the card. The only thing she hates more than a cliche is a platitude, but to make a pithy, personal remark, I need more biographical detail. Who exactly is Allison? “I used to work with her – very quiet, closed person.” “How about: ‘Dear Allison, I hope time has managed to penetrate your reserve’?” “No.”
“Who’s Wendy?” “You remember Wendy: she slept with your father.” “Why would I remember that?” (Wait, I do remember). “Why are you sending her a card?” She looked at me like I was the most suburban person ever to hold a pen. “This was a long time ago.”
“Who’s Sandra?” “Hilarious woman. Terrible mother. Worst mother in the world.” “OK: ‘Dear Sandra, I hope you and your brood are thriving, but if they are, somebody has been spreading lies about you.’” “Fine,” she says, which surprises me.
“Who’s Alan?” “Wonderful painter; he could never come out to his parents – it was really sad.” “He’s your age?” “Little bit older.” “OK, so now he’s 90 and his parents are approximately 110, and you need to give me some information I can use.”
When I got to “J”, I was surprised to find not only my ex-husband but his entire extended family. So I played all those with a very straight bat, except I added to my ex’s, after “Merry Christmas”: “You arse – I pray God it’s your last.” Then: “(Lolololol. I’m writing my mother’s cards. You should see what I put in your brother’s.).”
My mother squinted at this for a bit while she was signing it, but my writing was tiny and she didn’t have a hope.
“Who’s Frank?” “He’s the one who really likes Keir Starmer.” This certainly narrows it down, in her diehard lefty cadre, but I’m still struggling to place him. “How about: ‘You must be very glad of the constitutional reforms announced at this festive time’?” “I think that was mainly Gordon Brown,” she said, then diverted to how statesmanlike Brown looks now, concluding that I should send him a card. “I’m not sending Gordon Brown a card.” “And yet you send my favourite card to John Major.”
“What if I die between posting them and them arriving?”
“You’re not going to.” “People will think I’m so strange.” “Seriously, the least of your problems once you’re dead is what people think of you.”
“That’s when it matters most what people think, when they’re just about to go to your funeral.” “Why would they even think you were strange?” “Well, to be writing cards, on the brink of death. One ought to be doing something fun.” “Are you crazy? This is the most fun we’ve had in years.”
Every name in this article has been changed, apart from John (RIP), John and Norma Major, Keir Starmer and Gordon Brown.
• Zoe Williams is a Guardian columnist
