Whatever the circumstances, the joy of sending Christmas cards is something to treasure every year

I smiled when I received this. I don’t send cards expecting one in return. I’m aware I’m one of a dwindling number who remain devoted to this yuletide ritual. My friend – a relatively new but extremely valued one - is one of many who’s very much not.

But writing and sending cards isn’t a laborious, administrative task for me, a necessity to be highlighted off a To Do list. It’s something I’ve enjoyed doing for as long as I can remember.

It is Christmas 1988. I’m six-years-old, watching my mother write a stack of cards at the kitchen table. Some will be put in the ‘to be posted’ pile, while a small bundle will be given to me or my siblings to hand deliver to nearby neighbours that evening, or on our walk to school the following morning.

Being sent to Jimmy and Mary’s two houses along the avenue was always a treat. With them, simply pushing a card through the letterbox, as we did with other neighbours, wouldn’t have been appropriate.

An elderly, childless couple, who doted on me and my two siblings, we’d be expected to knock the door. They’d warmly thank us, often ushering us in for a mince pie. When we left, they’d press four cards on us: one for each of us individually, and a bigger one addressed to the family. We’d take their tokens of gratitude back home, through the cold, crisp, dark.

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The welcome thud of receiving cards through the letterbox, or helping choose the prettiest ones to display in pride of place on the mantelpiece was always fun. Those were the days of two Royal Mail deliveries per day, too. The anticipation of a ten pound note from some distant uncle or aunt undoubtedly played a part in the childhood excitement.

Though fewer of us feel compelled to send cards nowadays, and those who do tend not to send as many, a Christmas without sending cards has always been as unthinkable to me as one without crackers.

Like everyone else, I’ve had my share of miserable Christmases. 2000, 2010 and 2019 were notable stinkers. 2020 – just ahead of another brutal Covid lockdown – was oddly one of the most joyful. Always, no matter what, no matter the circumstances, I’ve kept up my yearly ritual.

Time to shut out the world

In the first week of December, I set out my various boxes of cards, my old-fashioned address book, put on a nice movie or suitable Christmas music, and write. I shut out the world, and, using my favourite scratchy fountain pen, include a note of gratitude to every person I send one to.

Gone are the days of writing what seemed like hundreds, as my mother did when we were kids. It’s also rare more than a few will be hand-delivered. As I’ve gotten older, the best of friends often live thousands of miles away.

But each one, like the gifts from Jimmy and Mary, is my own intended treat for someone I appreciate, who I’m glad to be journeying with through this often dark place.

There’s much to feel bleak about. The rise of antisemitism, the evidence of which is as stark as it has been denied by complacent naysayers, particularly sickens and is genuinely frightening. Meanwhile, the lack of appreciation from political and cultural leaders that their privileged roles necessitate defending democracy’s core tenets - all severely under threat – has been a regular source of frustration, anger, or both this year.

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There’s a palpable sense of an establishment treading water, not quite sure what it is for, and certainly unwilling to take responsibility for its lack of action on important issues. Instead, the performance of seriousness from some, and no pretence of it from others.

Frivolity and self-indulgence is fine for an office Christmas party, or a night in with a cheese board watching a daft Hallmark movie. It’s disastrous for social cohesion or sensible policy-making. It’s no wonder that destabilising forces of both left and right are seizing the opportunity to fill the political void.

Much to remain hopeful about

But, despite everything, in the real, tangible world, of scratchy pens on paper, where old traditions, norms, and a basic insistence on objective truth still survive; away from doom-scrolling and misinformation, there’s much to remain hopeful about.

One of the most solidly joyful moments of this year for me was being in the room in Edinburgh when approximately 100 women gathered on April 16 th to hear the livestreamed confirmation from the Supreme Court that women are protected as such under the Equality Act 2010.

A necessary, hard fought for, beginning to an end of what has been an awful, damaging era.

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That so many of the women on my Christmas card list are those I’ve become friends with through my own battles with the ‘gender wars’ is likely unsurprising.

Nevertheless, I understand entirely why my sweary friend doesn’t send cards. Apart from anything else, the price of a first-class stamp is extortionate. I hope sending mine second-class doesn’t diminish the love and gratitude they’re sent with.

For those perhaps tempted to resurrect what might be a long-forgotten activity from childhood, I heartily recommend it – there’s still time to grab a box and hand deliver some.

For me, it’s a ritual of gratitude. Making the time to write a small token of thanks to people who – as my old neighbours did - provide light and friendship; a welcome counter to the cold, crisp dark.