The Five Days of Christmas isn’t music to my ears

Remember the rule of six? The magic number that our leaders banged on (and on…) about for months? The one we needed to remember at all times in order to survive and theoretically thrive? Well, forget it. Now, thanks to pandemic shrinkflation, it’s all about the rule of five.

Yes, folks, we are being granted Five Days of Christmas, during which time we will be obliged to have five times the fun in order to make up for the five-times-five number of subsequent days for which we will be locked up (sorry, down…) thereafter. Just by way of punishment – I mean precaution.

No pressure, then. None. It’s not yet clear how many other families we will be allowed to meet on those five days, but let’s just say the next few weeks will be like a particularly ruthless game of Risk as social alliances are struck and broken with Game of Thrones callousness.

Sure, you usually have the neighbours round for a sherry and a chinwag, but wouldn’t you prefer to upgrade this year? If you’re going to cram a month of festivities into a working week, you have to be strategic and aim higher than the in-laws; think Huw Edwards and Kylie Minogue. Ooh, might Her Majesty Olivia Colman be free? Or, failing that, the actual Queen?

Even those of us moaning minnies who whinge ungratefully about too many parties and witter on about the joys of a lovely, low-key Christmas definitely don’t want one of those this year.

Frankly, I want to go for the full Mariah Carey with a side order of Joan Collins; son-et-lumière with sleigh bells and huskies in the utility room.

But if you examine the Five Days of Christmas more closely, they will be a far cry from the norm. Rumour has it anyone attempting to purchase so much as a Terry’s Chocolate Orange could have to fill out a seasonal questionnaire first.

“Will you be hosing down your Christmas presents with disinfectant?” Hmm. I have a hunch the powersthat-be want us all to say “yes”. So that’s a yes from me.

“On December 24, will your husband swap Santa’s usual 10-yearold malt for a glass of corona-busting mouthwash?” Absolutely.

“Finally, have you or has anyone related to you by blood or marriage or friendship bought a suspiciously, indeed incriminatingly large turkey?” Oh, oh I’ve got this one! No. No. No.

And then, just as I’m boarding the bus to Bicester Village à la The Great Escape, a Covid marshal looms into sight, peremptorily checks my credit card statement and warmly wishes me a traditional Christmas.

“Thanks very much,” I reply. “It’s going to be mega – all my loved ones finally gathered back into the fold. Maybe a spot of illicit carolling, illegal hugs if we manage to spring Grandma from the care home. Oh, and don’t tell Sage, but that bucket of Yuletide Cif on the front doorstep is only for show.”

Uh-oh. Hoist by my own petard, dammit. But learn from my downfall. Save yourselves! And December 25, however you mark it!

Just stay schtumm. Got that? However ridiculous the Covid-secure demands, nod your head.

Whatever bizarre stipulations accompany the purchase of that iphone 12, simply smile and agree to immerse it in hand gel for 24 hours in advance of gifting, outdoors, at a distance of two metres, while wearing full PPE.

Celebrating has never felt so fraught with jeopardy - except our biggest fear isn’t contracting corona, but being caught bang to rights by the Christmas Wishfinder General in a crusade against festive bonhomie and the causes of festive bonhomie.

There are mixed messages from overseas. In France, Christmas trees have been declared “essential”. But latest Spanish research claims that dogs increase the risk of infection by 78 per cent. Supermarket deliveries can also be vectors of the virus.

There’s a thoroughly 2020 moral dilemma: which one goes in the bin – the family dachshund or the Waitrose stollen? Both, probably, if you follow the science. But that’s the thing; we’re not, any more.

During the first lockdown, we were understandably scared and magnificently biddable.

During the Tiers for Fears imbroglio of different rules in different places at different times, we started to rail against the mixed messages, the stentorian diktats, the swift U-turns and general growing sense of headless confusion.

The PM assured us we were in for a world-beating lock-in. But the Government’s p----up-in-a-brewery promises fell flatter than a pint of warm bitter when we discovered they hadn’t ordered in anything like enough crates of premium test and trace.

And now here we are once again, waiting. Waiting to leave our homes so we can engage in a mad dash to salvage this godawful year by somehow making Christmas magical.

Waiting for local shops desperate for our custom to reopen, as Amazon has warned stocks of just about everything will run out and nailing a Sainsbury’s Christmas delivery slot is the stuff of urban myth.

Perhaps we ought not to worry about shortages; it’s all about flasks, fleecy throws and hot water bottle hand warmers this year, amid warnings to keep our windows wide open regardless of the winter weather.

We are supposed to be getting released from captivity on December 2 but, as recent days have made clear, there will still be local lockdowns, curfews and limitations on our freedom, depending on the rates of infection, hospitalisation and random epidemiological advice gleaned from Wikipedia.

As 2020 has so forcibly impressed upon us, from guest lists to festive celebrations, it’s a numbers game. Six people. Five days. I suspect we’ll be lucky to end up with a single partridge in a pear tree.

This year, you have to aim higher than the in-laws: might Olivia Colman be free?