A Christmas Message

Well. Here we are again. Another Christmas has arrived like a relative you vaguely remember liking but can’t quite recall why — carrying a tin of something homemade and an opinion about the heating. And before anyone panics: yes, this is a Christmas message, not a manifesto, not an invoice, and not (despite appearances) the opening chapter of a memoir. That comes later. Possibly January. Possibly never. Let’s see how the mince pies go. First things first: hello. Hello to friends, followers, readers, lurkers, accidental subscribers, Peep Show quiz champions, and those who only know me as “Sophie’s dad off the telly” — a title I now wear with the pride of a man who’s finally stopped explaining himself at dinner parties. This year, like most years, has been… instructive. There have been moments of joy, moments of terror, moments when the boiler made a noise suggesting it had opinions. There has been work, waiting for work, working out why the work hasn’t replied, and then suddenly doing too much work all at once and complaining about that instead. Balance. I’ve written things. I’ve edited things. I’ve stared at sentences until they stared back and asked me to justify myself. I’ve stood on stages, sat in rehearsal rooms, talked earnestly about “structure,” and then gone home and eaten toast standing up because that was all the emotional bandwidth left. And yet — and yet — here we are. Still standing. Still laughing. Still managing, against all odds, to find something funny about it all. Which, frankly, feels like a small but significant Christmas miracle. To those of you who’ve read my work, supported it, shared it, recommended it, or gently nudged me in the direction of “perhaps fewer words here, Paul” — thank you. You are the reason the thing exists at all. Writing, I’ve learned, is a lonely business made bearable by the knowledge that somewhere out there, someone is reading it on a train, or in bed, or pretending to listen during a family gathering. To friends — old ones, new ones, and those I haven’t seen since approximately 1987 but still feel fond of — thank you for staying in my life in the peculiar, elastic way adulthood allows. We don’t meet as often. We talk in voice notes now. But the affection is still there, like a good jumper brought out once a year. To followers: thank you for tolerating the mix of earnestness, nonsense, promotion, nostalgia, and the occasional rant about systems that don’t work and should know better. I promise to continue in much the same vein. Christmas, I think, is less about perfection and more about permission. Permission to pause. To eat too much. To remember people we miss. To forgive the year — and ourselves — for not being quite what we planned. So wherever you are, however you’re celebrating — loudly, quietly, joyfully, reluctantly — I wish you warmth, laughter, decent lighting, and at least one moment where you think: yes, this will do. With love, gratitude, and a festive nod from the wings, Paul 🎄