Melanie McDonagh

Obviously, I can’t wait for the Meghan and Harry audience with Oprah Winfrey. Alas, it’s going to be broadcast at about one o’clock in the morning our time (I’m still thinking popcorn at the office around a flat screen). But meanwhile there are tasters from the programme to keep us happy. What got me going from the most recent excerpt wasn’t Meghan’s observations about 'The Firm', interesting as that was, but the question put to her by Oprah:  'How do you feel about the palace hearing you speak your truth today?' Eh? 'Your truth'? I think what she means is 'putting forward your point of view' or 'offering your take on the situation' or 'giving your side of things'.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aaVb3YeNQA0 Eh? 'Your truth'?

Ah, a story for our times. And I think you know how it’s going to go. There was this junior school in Yorkshire which had houses named after various figures in English history; Francis Drake, Sir Walter Raleigh, Lord Nelson. And then? You can take it from here.  Some very agitated pupils got together and sent round a petition which frightened the headteacher so much that he renamed the houses? Well, you’d be right except for one thing. It only takes one really annoying person to write the Great Men out of a school; that and a suggestible head teacher, one Lee Hill, who posts school news on Twitter with a picture that shows off his extensive arm tattoos, posing with a takeaway coffee.

Well, the ways have parted. That 12-month revision of the departure of the Duke and Duchess of Sussex for California (via Canada) has been expedited by, it would seem, the decision of the couple to share all with Oprah Winfrey. There was, according to the Mail’s well-informed Royal correspondent, Richard Kay, an hour-long conversation between Her Majesty and Harry, which ended with the sentiment: sorry, it’s in or out mate. Remarkably the two parties couldn’t even come up with a joint statement to give the illusion of amity.

There are two contemporary preoccupations that are effectively at odds in the abortion laws of Britain and Northern Ireland. One principle is that a woman’s right to have an abortion must always be accommodated and celebrated. The other is that the diversity we are also expected to celebrate includes disability. Unfortunately, the first trumps the second when it comes to the abortion laws of Britain, which were extended to Northern Ireland behind the backs of its elected representatives in 2019, when the Northern Ireland Assembly wasn’t functioning.

Captain Sir Tom Moore was a lovely man and an inspiration to centenarians everywhere. Actually, forget centenarians; if the rest of us could be so chipper and nicely turned out at half his age, we’d be doing well. I was oddly moved to hear of his death, though not, I fear, to the point of turning out at my window to applaud. But then I gave the communal pot banging a miss for the NHS during lockdown too, so that’s nothing new. I’m not convinced Boris Johnson is right, though, when he says Captain Tom deserves a statue. After all, he was a modest man, Sir Tom; I’m not sure he wouldn’t be embarrassed himself by the idea.

It’s somehow not that surprising to find that the Bishop of London has gone on Twitter to suggest that churches should consider closing. Sarah Mullally wrote:  'The situation is serious in @dioceseoflondon do read the request from @londoncouncils and consider the seriousness of the situation as you take your local decisions.' Well, thanks for that. Her observation is plainly intended to push for closures; it’s the only possible way of interpreting her contribution. And duly, she led the news this morning. She’s following Sadiq Khan here, mayor of London, who, when he declared a state of emergency yesterday, called for places of worship to close.

The great Joan Collins, this paper’s occasional diarist, was quick off the mark in putting up her Christmas decorations… around November, I recall. But the really sane and sensible thing to do is to go retro and be late taking them down. Today is, I need hardly say, the Twelfth Day of Christmas when the three wise men turned up at Bethlehem with their gold frankincense and myrrh. Happy Epiphany. But in happier days, viz, before Christmas was commercialised last century, and in even happier times before the Reformation, the season didn’t turn out like a light. It went into a kind of slow-burn right down to Candlemas on 2 February, forty days after Christmas — viz, the feast of the Purification of the Virgin.

If there is one thing to raise the spirits at this time of year, it’s the sound of a letterbox rattling open and the satisfying thud of post on the mat. Along with the creditors’ letters, there is quite likely to be a few envelopes pleasingly suggestive of robins and snow scenes.  Yep, the Christmas cards have arrived, from the organised, as early as the beginning of December, to the ones delivered on Christmas Eve, plainly as a response to the one you sent the recipient a couple of days before. All are cheering, all suggestive of goodwill, all more or less reflective of the personality of the sender. Obviously they’re environmentally unsound, even if they’re recycled, but stuff it. A card for birthday and Christmas isn’t going to deforest Britain.

It’s been a beast of a year, hasn’t it? This morning my father-in-law died of Covid in Pristina, and it’s only when it comes right home to you that you’re reminded how real and immediate the threat from that spiteful little virus is. The reason I’m writing about this personal loss is that I worry that the whole Covid situation has been politicised, even while the vaccine is finally coming into play.