No more tickets, no more parties: the death of planning

By Ann Wroe

Any plans for Christmas? A friend asked, as autumn gathered pace. The question, though kind enough, was infuriating. It was summed up in a cartoon another friend sent me, of an anxious-looking man on the telephone: “Are we not coming to you, or are you not coming to us?” How do I know? My Christmas-card order arrived the other day and I stowed them in the cupboard with the twinkly tree-lights. This struck me as the furthest-forward bit of planning I had done since March – and the only bit that was guaranteed to stay in place.

The irony is rich, because at the start of this year I had planned as never before. After the unbearable political stasis of 2019 the very number “2020” had a brisk, organised look to it, like the wheels of a train in motion. On my desk, in neat plastic folders, I had air and train tickets for Italy and Spain, perfectly synchronised. On my mantlepiece (showily) were tickets for Glyndebourne and the Brighton Festival. Of these, the only survivor by July was a booking for a B&B along the coast which I had moved so many times, shifting it steadily through the months, that when I eventually got there I had made no further plans for my visit, beyond aimless wandering and scribbling.