The term poleaxed is a funny one isn’t it. It’s a rather archaic term for one thing, stemming from the Middle Ages when soldiers on the battlefield would quite literally be knocked down with an axe. It’s derived from the middle English word “pollax” which was another word for battle axe and was later bastardised, as much of our language is, into poleaxe.

Today it simply means to be hit so hard by something that it’s difficult to recover. And that’s where I enter the story.

I’ve been poleaxed gentle reader, by COVID 19.

There are two things that I’m finding hard to believe about it right now. The first being, why has it taken four years to catch up with me and the second being, why now? Why just before Christmas?

It’s not fair I tell you.

I did everything right in 2020 when the pandemic was at its zenith. I isolated like a hermit, I wore one of those awful, eye-rubbing masks everywhere I went, I avoided visiting friends and relatives as if they were total strangers to me, I was zealous about keeping my hands sanitised to the point of fanaticism and I followed all the rules even though the lying hounds in our government did not.

And now, here I am, four years later, with the damn thing and its knocked the stuffing out of me and knocked Christmas into a cocked hat.

I was first aware of it on Friday morning having gone to bed on Thursday night feeling perfectly well, in good spirits and full of a rather pleasant medium-bodied Malbec. The next morning I was proverbially poleaxed.

At first I thought that it was just a “bug going around” but somehow that didn’t feel quite right and so on Saturday morning I awoke early and decided to take a lateral flow test and sure enough it read as positive. Bugger!!!

Since then it’s gotten progressively worse. The coughing is both painful and persistent, my head feels like it’s full of play-fighting puppies and breathing is becoming something of a challenge. I can’t remember a time when I drank so much water either as my mouth is drier than a Jewish comedian most of the time. Seriously, the fear I have about our water rates going up is very real.

But if truth be told, I can cope with the physical symptoms. I’ve had a lot worse when SARS nearly killed me in 2003. Compared to that this is a stroll in the park on a sunny Sunday morning in May with a stop off to feed the ducks and then a quick latte and a slice of carrot cake in the café.

What really rankles me the most is that all my carefully made Christmas plans are now just pie in the sky. And believe you me I had planned it meticulously.

You see, I do enjoy Christmas. On my own terms of course; I don’t fall prey to all that commercialism that has blighted this annual festival ever since Coca Cola turned Santa Claus red. No, I love to do Christmas my way and I always, always enjoy it as a result.

I plan a nice meal for the family with the emphasis on rotating the meat choice every time so that we don’t have the same thing two years in a row. I take pride in doing a nice spread and being a good and generous host and I try to buy presents that people actually want or need or would make them genuinely happy rather than some crappy old tat that’s going to be broken by Boxing day or in a charity shop by Easter.

In short, I make a bit of an effort without buying into all that grotesque advertising that we’re subjected to from the middle of October onwards.

But now…

Now all my plans are scuppered by some ugly, grubby little lab-grown virus, invisible to the naked eye. It’s just not showing any signs of leaving and I can only surmise that I shall still be riddled with the wretched thing this time next week.

Oh sure, I’ve got a back-up plan, I always do have one, but it’s not going to be anywhere near the same. I shall miss not being with my granddaughter on Christmas day and spending time with loved ones and dear friends, for truly, that is the greatest pleasure of the season. Can I get an amen? No? Please yourselves, but it is for me.

Instead of the traditional family Christmas my lovely wife and I shall be isolating here at Blessham Hall watching rubbish TV, drinking wine and feeling pretty sorry for ourselves.

Actually, Ange is yet to show any signs of the disease and I’m hoping and praying that it passes her by. She’s had enough health battles for one year and doesn’t need to finish 2023 on another one.

So that’s the situation here. It’s a shame but life goes on and there’s always next year if we’re all still here by then – I do hope we are.

All that remains now is for me to wish you all the very merriest of Christmases. My heartfelt thanks go out to all those who have supported us in various ways and anyone who has bought my books this year and it is my fervent and heartfelt wish that you all have a happy and healthy time on December 25^th.

Cheers everyone and stay safe x