They talk about what they miss. BHS at Christmas; Philip Seymour Hoffman; her sister. Then they raise a glass to another go around. “Cheers.”

They shop for cheese and try not to worry about cholesterol. They eat mince pies and refuse to think about sugar. First world problems.

On her carer’s arm, Jean shuffles along the corridor. In her Dementia, she smiles at the neighbours and wonders when her mum will come.

In Regent Street, the Sally Army band play The First Noel. She thinks of her Welsh, temperance Aunts – now long dead. Nadolig Llawen, bach.

There’s something maudlin about Christmas decorations. The dancing bear from her grandma, the star her son made 20 years ago. And another year done.

Gaza is in rubble, the forests burn. Meanwhile, in Gloucester, a chicken called Billie-Jean roams the streets in a high vis jacket. Crazy times.

Every year, when she writes her elderly mother’s Christmas cards, they argue about postcodes. Her mum calls them new-fangled.  She laughs. “Fifty years ago.”

They’re stressed all the time, these middle-class women of a certain age. They speak well, dress with style, but seldom sleep a whole night.

“We have a store of days and we spend them like wasteful drunks.”* He feels this every December, wondering where all the time went.

• Days Without End, Sebastian Barry

Neil reads from the newspaper, “Prince Andrew and the Chinese businessman.”

Stella says, “New joke. A ‘useful idiot’ goes on a ‘straightforward shooting weekend.’”

In Asda, Beth fails to avoid Tessa who, as per, overshares. “Nobody knew about his autism when they married. Now they have five kids.”

The garden centre has sold out of Arthur Santa. Time was, when he was little, you couldn’t find an Arthur for love nor money.

Writing her Christmas cards, Lou is straining to wish people a peaceful 2025. What with Trump, Putin and all the rest, it seems ambitious.

On the train, the children wriggle and bicker. “Santa’s watching,” snaps the mother. They gamble on Santa cutting them some slack and carry on.

Since Trump’s victory, for his mental health, Charlie has stopped watching news. As a result, he almost missed Assad’s fall. One door closes, etc.

MPs say if the young cancel Netflix, this time next year they’ll be millionaires, or at least have a deposit. “Risible,” say the young.

At his beloved Arsenal, Noah pays £5 for tea and a KitKat. His season ticket is ruinously expensive, but what ya going to do?

Nat’s new yoga teach is Polish, or perhaps Russian. At the end of each move she barks out, “sufficient”. It’s less chakra, more Stasi.

The car is broken. The dealership says it will be at least three weeks – why? – so they spend the weekend strategising about Christmas travel.

Her favourite Caravaggio of the year, The Incredulity of Saint Thomas – a painting about evidence in a year when truth has taken a hammering.

Since January, Joanne has gained five pounds. She thinks, “By 65, I will be 19 stone.” Miserably, she buys salad and joins a gym.

This year, Miggs has protested for Gaza, climate, abortion, and against sewage and Rwanda (the policy not the place). She might take December off.

The disgraced celebrity says, “It was only a few middle-class women.” At the BBC, they sigh and wonder how it is all happening again.

It’s Sunday and raining. They open the first advent window, light December 1^st on their candle and wonder where the last year has gone.

Remembering Christmases past, the grandparents laugh and say, “Christmas is about having enough duvets. And avoiding the motorway.”

“Plus love, hope and Quality Street.”

Over tea and mince pies, the friends compare 2023 highlights. A son’s wedding, some bowel surgery, seeing the Caravaggios in Rome. Ups and downs.

Therapist, Mags, sees her final client for 2023. Despite her work, everyone is still mad. She doesn’t predict a fall in demand for 2024.

On the shortest day, they walk in the park. The London Planes are bare; it’s dark by four. But think of Spring, they say.

“The choir of children sing their song

Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong”.

Yeah, but nothing says Christmas quite like “The World’s Strongest Man.”

Danny, on hold to HMRC, wonders what else he could do with this time. Stop a boat, cut a waiting list, punch a PM.   

Her mother has bad eyes, so Beverley writes her cards. Clemmie doesn’t use postcodes and strikes through names of friends lost since last Christmas.

“Says here, the Home Secretary’s parents would have struggled to be together under the new rules.

“Can he look his mother in the eye?”

She hasn’t bought any presents yet, but the shops are rammed. Instead, she sides with the Devil and, from the sofa, fires up Amazon.

“Come for a drink,” they say after the work Christmas lunch. In his paper-hat, Alfie agrees but in truth, he just wants to sleep.

A group of teenagers kick a football around the misty park. Two years ago, in Mariupol, they played in the snow with their fathers.

Getting everyone together on the 25^th is exhausting. Bless the family but secretly she misses Covid Christmas, when they all just stayed at home.  

Rishi cheers the passing of the Rwanda Bill. Meanwhile, in the Bibby Stockholm, they wonder how to trace the mother of the dead immigrant.

“You know you did these stories last year?” he says. “Everything is still bollocks, so what’s the point?”

She shrugs. “It’s all a puzzle.”

In the shadows of the candle-lit church, the soloists sings, “Once in Royal David’s City”. Beautiful but to us, no longer young, infinitely sad.

A bunch of old folk belt it out at the funeral. “Happy Christmas your arse, I pray God it’s our last”.

We’ll miss Shane.

She’s looking for a book for her elderly mother, something about the countryside.  Ronald Blythe perhaps.

“But did I buy her this last year?”

Terri is doing rosary Advent.

“I will say 70 prayers for you,” she says.

It’s been a rough year. Debs, a non-believer, is touched.

He’s playing five parts in a touring pantomime. The children love it, but at the social club, old people fall asleep. An actor’s life.

(For Arthur)

When they decorate the tree, Billy, 5, drops the glass ballerina.

“It’s fine,” says Granny. It belonged to her mother, but it’s only stuff.

Sam’s secret Santa is Diane from logistics. He barely knows her so buys some hand-cream. He pays more than £10 and feels a failure.

The priest reminds them, “Advent is the season of waiting.”

With no appointment for his hip replacement, Joe is only too familiar with waiting.

Two families panicking about baby formula. Becca, in Watford, because it’s unaffordable; Muhanad, in Gaza, because he can’t fine any for his motherless baby.

Maya, 22, opens December 1^st on her Advent calendar. It’s childish, but her mum always sends one. The first chocolate, the start of Christmas.