Perspective Amidst the Festivities...

Sometimes I can't believe my luck.

Rewind to last month and an exchange, similar to the one below, took place between my London-based mate and I.

'Are you free on 26th November?'

'Yes' 

'There's an evening with Emma Thompson talking about her new film. I've got you a ticket.' 

'HELL YES.' 

'There'll also be Greg Wise, Caitlin Moran, and Emilia Clarke talking about what Christmas means to them.' 

'COUNT ME IN. HOLD MY CALLS, CANCEL MY ONE O'CLOCK. TELL THE AMBASSADOR HE'LL HAVE TO WAIT. THAT IS A PARTY I WANT TO BE AT.'

Read on to see what
little beauty's all about.

I may have over-exaggerated the texts just a smidge, but still, the gist was just that. The newly-crowned Luckiest Woman in the World, (that's ME! I was going to be seeing EMMA THOMPSON in the flesh, FFS) booked a train, sorted a hotel, and rescheduled my sparkly black-varnished pedicure so that come the 26th, I'd be off and away for the night of all nights. And reader, it really was the night of all nights, just in ways I hadn't expected.

First off, this wasn't just a promotional night for Emma Thompson's new film. I mean, it was and it wasn't. Last Christmas came out on 15th November, so was obviously mentioned. We were all urged to go and watch it (check!) and tell others to do the same. (Go and see it. Check!) But really this was about fundraising and awareness-raising. It's no spoiler to say that the film Last Christmas features characters that are homeless and/or refugees. It does so naturally, rather than heavy-handedly showcasing 'issues' IMHO. It's all part of the story, and part of the setting. Let's face it, it's a Christmas film, set in present day London. The sanitised days of Love Actually are cultural light years away now. Emma Thompson talked about her work with the charity, Crisis. Apparently one in fifty people in London are homeless. That felt staggering. It's been a rising number, over the past fifteen years or so. There was no way anyone could make a London-based film without including the issue of homelessness, even on the most superficial background-extra level.

This photo is from Twitter.
It is a good photo.

Then there was the work both Em and Greg (I call them that now because we're mates) do with The Refugee Council. The idea that displaced people struggle more at this time of year can't be news to anyone. The specific nature of those struggles was news though. Deborah Francis-White, who hosted the evening, talked of her recent interview with the author, Lemn Sissay. (Stand by for my paraphrasing of her paraphrasing of something he said. Apologies to all concerned. If I've misrepresented you, let me know.) He told her that for him, the meaning of the word family is when people dispute your memories. They've shared something with you and have their own take. They're your family with a shared history and perspectives on what you can remember. To have no one to dispute or confirm your past is incredibly isolating. That isolation is then exacerbated at this time of year, when everyone else is filled with festive cheer. (Although, let face it, they could well be struggling too.)

Upon entering the theatre, we were given a copy of a book. It's actually the most perfect idea for a book, ever. A collection of short essays from all sorts of people about what Christmas means to them. It features chapters from Meryl Streep, Caitlin Moran, Greg and Em, as well as Tindy Agaba, a former child soldier abducted from his family before escaping to the UK. He is now a Human Rights activist. He read his chapter aloud, as did Steve Ali, a Syrian refugee, who once lived in the Calais camps, and is now a silver smith and interpreter living in London. Shared stories of alternative experiences, compared to the tree and stocking palaver most of us recognise as standard. Both moving and humorous. This wasn't a night of bleak reflection. It was a celebration of humanity, in all its glory. Triumph over adversity and all that malarkey. It also put into perspective my so-called stresses right now. I haven't ordered the turkey yet, I still have presents to buy, and the Christmas dinner seating plan is proving challenging once again. But big deal. There are worse situations to be in. Literally millions of worse situations. STFU Bond.

This photo is by me. It is a terrible photo. 

The evening ended up in a mass singalong of Wham's Last Christmas. Bill Bailey on the piano, Em'n'Greg looking on, Caitlin Moran dressed as a giant Christmas tree, and Emilia Clarke clapping happily along. It was utterly bonkers, soaringly good-willed, and we left the theatre feeling all the love for humankind. I know. In this political climate. Can you believe?

Pret doing good works as
well as making nice soup.

The next day, I left my hotel and headed for the station via Pret. Everywhere I looked, there were signs from the universe. As I chose my soup, workers were carrying crates of Pret sandwiches out to vans waiting to take them to shelters. Half an hour later when I left, a team of charity workers were standing in the rain attempting to get donations to Shelter. When I got to Euston, a busker was singing Ralph McTell's Streets of London. There might as well have been a big arrow coming down from the sky. I knew I had to up my game.

I checked my privilege then checked my bank account. I can spare more than I already give, so I should give more. Simple as that. I am warm, safe, and fed. Like I said, sometimes I can't believe my luck.

Have a lovely week, folks.

Some links in you want more info or to make a donation.

The Refugee Council

Crisis

Shelter