The smell of my son’s aftershave still lingers in both bathrooms – Terre by Hermes – and on past experience will last for a couple of days.
I enjoy it while it’s here, as the scent of sophisticated masculinity is rare in both this rural corner and my house in particular.
And it somehow brings an energy into the rooms – an energy lacking in an all too silent home.
He arrived for a pre-Christmas weekend as I can’t, or, as he sees it, won’t fly to London.
This upsets and annoys him in equal measure. He will not fully accept my copd diagnosis and its limitations. Somehow, it is a personal affront to him and the person I was.
I understand and even now flinch at the memory of the rare irritability towards my mother I showed on days when she faltered or was not her buoyant self. I understand that it’s fear that drives the words: "Why not? Get a grip. What now?"
And because I understand through experience, I have ceased to get angry…well, almost.
Our roles reversed long ago as like all dominant males he attempted control – probably around the age of five.
But it’s only in the last few years that he has truly tried to manage my life.
Las Molieres and SW France were just about acceptable when I could get on a plane and leave it for the joys of London.
Now he sees it as my last stubborn bolthole and hell mend me when sturm und drang rage around it.
That’s actually unfair to him as his anger is fuelled by feelings of helplessness in the face of my intransigence. He hates the fact that I shall be here alone on Christmas Day.
"Where’s the Christmas tree?" He asked on arrival. "And all the decorations?"
"There seemed little point," I told him. "No-one’s coming; I’m not having any parties and it’s a hell of a lot of work for me now."
"Well, I’m here and you’re here. You love your Christmas tree."
I do, I did and yes, Emilie could have done it all for me and we could both have watched as César peed up against it as he no doubt would.
But I didn’t and now I’m cross with myself for not doing so. Once you start letting go of things, you end up letting go of everything. And that’s when you start frightening the horses.
I realise I am painting what could be a sad picture of Home Alone Cook.
Trust me and whisper it, I really rather enjoy it. I will get up when I wake, dress, or not, and start the morning with a coffee and chocolate from the huge selection box I’ve already opened. Even two bars of chocolate.
I may cook a chicken, or I may not, but by mid-day I’ll have popped a cork on a bottle of champagne after watching my two-year-old granddaughter open a present or two via FaceTime.
And then…ah, new books lie to be opened, wonderful extended versions of EastEnders and Corrie will enthral me and in between Mario will belt out Joy to the World.
Of course, as I have done for years, I will watch The Quiet Man on Christmas Eve and join in the well-loved dialogue. My mother and son may no longer be there to also say the words, but they once were and that’s enough to know. Life cannot stay the same or, well, it wouldn’t be life.
I will have all I want or could need in a warm, comfortable house, unlike many, many a person today.
I think of those lying huddled on the streets; of those whose benefits weren’t paid and who queue at food banks. Of old people who wrap themselves in blankets rather than use heating they can’t afford.
Of those whose children are long lost in the foul grip of drugs or who have simply walked out and disappeared.
And I think of all the good people who will volunteer to open halls for the lost and the lonely, and the ever increasing poor, and give them a meal in a scene straight from Dickens.
I cannot believe we are still witnessing such poverty and Governmental indifference in 2018 and my contempt is scalding for the politicians who have brought us to this pretty pass.
Insulated as I am from cities I rarely see in person this open wound of a diseased society. But my television, my internet, points it out unsparingly and there is no reason not to see.
Yes, in France there are also the "sans abri" the homeless, but there is a greater safety net for the still-coping poor in generous benefits. For now.
A huge percentage of us though are still okay; more than okay, and so we have the luxury of pondering, frankly, minor problems – first world problems.
I have the luxury of writing this and knowing with every word how actually fortunate I am. May you be too.
Joyeux Noël mes amis.
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