Can we normalise being honest if we've had a crap Christmas?

But thanks for asking

“Good Christmas?”

It's something you say, isn't it. It's not quite “how are you?” in terms of its oh-shit-we've-passed-in-the-corridor-quick-say-something banality. It doesn't always require a knee-jerk “I'm good, you?” But it's close. A social nicety that, in an ideal world, prompts an anecdote about an imperfect but mostly enjoyable day in which your in-laws discovered they had fewer plates than they thought and you ended up eating out of a Frisbee. The sort of carefully-planned but charming-nonetheless chaos, in which you know you bought your Nan a present but you have absolutely no idea where you put it and everyone decided in advance you'd love to sleep on a two-seater sofa with a farty dog*. It's Christmas, innit.

*I know it's the least of it, but a mass abandonment of Twitter/X and/or the fact its search function is now unusable and/or Musk's decision to suppress posts with hashtags, means I didn't get to see nearly enough #DuvetKnowItsChristmas this year.

I'm not suggesting at all that we need to stop asking people if they had a nice Christmas because akshully some of us didn't, you fascist. This isn't that kind of Substack. If you spent most of December shopping, wrapping, doing housework, cooking, buying extra chairs that you're going to spend the rest of the year being hit in the shins by as they fall out of cupboards they don't really fit in, at the very least, someone – anyone – should ask if you enjoyed it.

What I'm suggesting is we need to get a bit better at saying things like “Christmas was a bit grim actually, my sister nearly died. But thanks for asking.” Not to everyone, I mean. Don't say it to the Sainsbury’s delivery driver. But we shouldn't put ourselves under pressure to always downplay how bad Christmas actually was, because we don't want to put a downer on someone else's retelling of their festive joy, which sounds for all the world like something from a Marks & Sparks advert.

My sister did nearly die, by the way. That wasn't a joke. It was all pretty traumatising, not least because it really opened my eyes to how over-run the NHS is, and how many people are being invited, through the promotion of NDRs, to consider whether they might not rather consider dying instead. I might write more about this in the coming weeks but, as it's not really my story to tell, I'm going to leave it there for now. What I can say is I've never felt more vindicated in my opinion that now is not the right time to bring assisted dying to the UK.

Speaking of which, if you'll forgive the detour, I found myself absolutely furious with Esther Rantzen over Christmas. Turns out she's got longer to live than she thought. Who would have thought it? Certainly not her and her family. Makes you wonder how much thought they've really put into their campaign. Rantzen would like us all to be happy about her news. And sure, she gets longer with her loved ones, I'm not going to begrudge anyone that. But I think her tenure as an expert on the subject is over. There are plenty of other people dealing with cancer. I wish the media would talk to some of them about their experiences instead.

Back to grim Christmas. You're welcome! I'm not writing this just because I had a bad Christmas. And I suppose, along with the third-time's-a-charm landing I endured at Stansted during November's storm, it did turn out to be OK (ish) in the end. To be honest, I'm surrounded by people who were having a far from ideal time. Because they are ill. Because it was their first Christmas without their mum, without their dad, without their kids. Several people I know spent some of it in A&E, because they'd had an accident, or a loved one had. For some it was their first Christmas post divorce, or they split up just before Christmas, or during it. And a few lucky others worked for the entire festive period.

I suppose what I'm saying is, expecting Christmas to be incredible is a fool's errand. If you're not into the Baby Jesus stuff, all it is is a good excuse to get together and eat a lot. It's not much to ask. And if you didn't even get that this year, for whatever reason, my sympathies to you. Don't feel like you're spoiling everyone else's magical memories by telling them.

On a much, much cheerier note. Mickey, Jen and I recently met up with the boss, her Millican-ness to record something for...nah, can't remember. There's a preview of it on YouTube, which means you get to enjoy all our faces. If you like that sort of thing. You know how people say they don't know what to do with their hands on camera? Turns out, I don't know what to do with my legs.

I'm at a funeral today, my first of the year, the good news keeps coming! I bring it up because may Aunty Pat had the dubious honour of being the first person I ever interviewed, for a school project I was doing on evacuation when I was about eight. She was probably the last person in my family to have a functioning memory of life during World War II. And she was lovely.

The good news is, I went looking for a specific photo of her. And failed. But I did find one of me doing a chin-up though. No, I couldn't believe it either.

Just time left to plug the upcoming Outside The Box (arrives Friday 17), in which I will be talking about one of the best decisions I made all Christmas - to use any downtime I had watch Dr Odyssey. I’m sure I will have articulated my thoughts wonderfully by then, but here’s a preview: OMFG!