As I sit here on Christmas morning, my office floor is scattered with colorful wrapping paper. Yes, the presents have been unwrapped.
When I say wrapping paper, it’s mostly cardboard wine boxes. A handsome bottle of Sancerre is within easy reach. If only it were chilled, I might be tempted for a taste right now.
For several months, I’ve known that this Christmas would be a solitary one. I’m embracing the “bah humbug” spirit—no tree, no tinsel, and even my beloved Santa snow globe from my mother will remain tucked away in the attic.
As for the turkey, I plan to defrost some homemade curry later on.
While there will be a few phone calls and messages, it’s highly likely that I won’t have any in-person interactions today.
I wonder how many others are spending Christmas Day like this? It’s my first time, and so far, it’s not too bad.
So my nearest and dearest have plumped for the wine option again. I have chided them gently about this in the past, told them I’ll only drink it. In their wisdom they have chosen to ignore the logic of my argument and, in a little while, I’ll raise a glass to that.
It was only my late mother who seemed to grasp that what I enjoyed receiving most at Christmas was something to play with. A toy of some sort was included as a stocking filler well into my adulthood. That Santa snow globe was one of them.
Table tennis has seen a huge surge in popularity in recent years
My mind spools back this morning to December 25, 1980, and the best toy 12 and 13-year-old brothers locked in competition over everything imaginable could possibly receive.
It was too big to wrap; too big even to go in the house. Indeed, I seem to remember that, when we first set eyes on the ultimate Christmas gift of our childhood years, it was propped up against the side of the house.
It was a table tennis table. Dad had thoughtfully thrown in two bats, some balls and a clamp-on net.
We set it up in the double garage there and then and so began my campaign for supremacy over my older brother in a sport for which we both displayed some early talent.
It was waged several times a week throughout our teens and, although he may argue, I’d like to think that, over the piece, I had the edge on him.
But childhoods must end, and, for us, university degrees had to begin. Followed by careers – his in law and mine in journalism.
Adult cares crowd out the simple pleasures of boyhood and on the hamster wheel of professional life, of monthly mortgage payments, of providing for young families, it can be easy to lose sight of the innocent fun in batting a little white ball back and forward.
Over decades in the office environment, we flirt with institutionalisation.
We soak up workplace pressure like sponges and come to pride ourselves in our ability to do so. My own trade would be nowhere without those highly absorbent multi-taskers riding the mechanical bull of news, refusing to allow the barrage of events to unseat them.
This Christmas, as I stick that Sancerre in the fridge for later with the chicken Madras, I reflect on my good fortune that the bull has yet to throw this rider.
But I reflect too that this may be the case only because I decided this year, deep into my 50s, to make changes.
Chief among them was the resolution to rediscover the innocent fun in batting a little white ball back and forward. I joined a table tennis club.
Twice a week, if commitments allow, I am to be found striving to regain my teenage form in Glasgow municipal facilities, competing against shavers as young as 17 or wily spin maestros as old as 80.
Getting back the old magic is hard work. I find in middle age that I have developed a version of ‘the yips’, a kind of nervous spasm which, in my case, afflicts an otherwise fluent forehand.
I tell myself life put the yips there, that the teenager who used to play so effortlessly in that double garage knew nothing about life.
But I am ironing this problem out and, against quality opposition, I can see myself becoming a better player than I ever was as a youngster.
That is not the greatest revelation about my attempt to reconnect with the human being who enjoyed this sort of thing all those years ago before adulthood rudely interrupted the joy.
No, greater than that is connecting with other human beings, some of whom are showing up every week for reasons rather similar to mine.
They used to play this game as kids. They were pretty good at it. They wonder why on earth they stopped. ‘Life …’ It’s the only explanation we can come up with.
At one of the venues, everyone must take a 15-minute shift as a ball-boy or boy-girl.
You wander a vast gymnasium scooping up balls in a net with a long handle and offer handfuls of them to the players on the ten tables. A smile from everyone; sometimes an affable wisecrack.
And you remember, suddenly, that you live in one of the friendliest cities in the UK and that it took a conscious decision to return to the realm of play to remind you of that.
Those ball-boy stints, performing the simplest or work tasks for the benefit of my fellow players, bring a level of serenity which I’d almost forgotten was achievable.
Ever the journalist, I decided to do some finding out about the hobby which had assailed me anew in middle age.
It turns out that, in England, adult participation in table tennis has increased by 11 per cent in the past year and by 22 per cent among women. Anecdotal evidence suggests a similar resurgence in Scotland.
It is particularly popular among older demographics because it goes easy on joints while still providing a workout. Health experts describe it as ‘aerobic chess’ – one of the best forms of exercise out there for the mind and body.
I rather wish I had this information to hand the other night when, dining with fellow journalists, I mentioned my renewed interest in the game and was assailed by groans.
They registered somewhere between derision and pity.
In an incredulous tone, one of them said: ‘Ping pong?!’ as if it belonged in the same bracket as tiddlywinks.
They are all lovely, well-meaning people, of course – just on different journeys requiring different strategies to make them possible.
Describe it as aerobic chess; describe it as ping pong if you must.
I describe it as the best present received in a difficult year – an escape valve which has helped sustain me since August and, I expect, will do for years to come.
For those not having a particularly Christmassy Christmas this year, I hope Santa was still good to you. More than that, I hope you were good to yourself.
For all the consideration shown in our loved ones’ offerings, sometimes it’s down to us to pick out the gifts we really need.
