A while ago, my friend's kid started throwing a birthday party every day.

It was a pretty stylish affair.

She'd grab all her teddies and line them up one by one. Then she'd open the front door and welcome in her guests - invisible, of course - with her Mam.

They would greet each of them by name. There would be (invisible) cake and (invisible) juice and (invisible) sandwiches. They would blow out the (invisible) candles.

And then the guests would leave. They would be escorted to the front door. The birthday party was over.

The next day, it happened again.

And the next.

The kid was persistent. These birthday parties went on, daily, for *weeks*.

At first her Mam was bemused – is this in the baby books? Is the daily-birthday-party one of those predictable childhood stages, like riding a bike or accidentally breaking your grandad's glasses?

But nope, no clue.

Her Mam shrugged, kept opening the front door to invisible guests and left her to it.

Time passed.
A lockdown ended.
The summer came.

The birthday parties ended.

Curious, my friend asked her kid about it. Why no more parties?

Kid looked at her like the question made no sense.

'Because the coronavirus is gone'.

She had been throwing birthday parties for the coronavirus.

She had been throwing birthday parties for the coronavirus *so that the coronavirus would get old and die*.

...

I mean.

Sure lookit, it worked! Kid was super pleased with herself. The lockdown was over, she could see her friends again!

(She was livid at the end of the summer, when restrictions came back. 'Who brought the coronavirus back?!' she said, outraged.)

I've been thinking about her a lot this week.

What's wrong with a bit of magical thinking? Especially when things are out of control.

The missing bits: the kid's dad is a healthcare worker. She knew he was going to the hospital every day to help sick people. She knew that the coronavirus made some people sick, & some died.

She's just old enough to pick up on worry in the house.

She's old enough to understand danger and to read the feelings in a room, even if she doesn't always understand them.

She knew people were upset. She knew her dad was walking into something big & terrible, every day.

So she helped in the only way she knew how.

She cast a magic spell.

I've been thinking about her a lot this week because it's coming up to Christmas.

I want Christmas so badly. I want the massive tin of biscuits in my Mam's sitting room, and the crispy bits of stuffing at the edge of the tin, and half-torn paper crowns that never sit right on our ginormous heads.

I want the softness and the love and the food stupour and most of all, the time, all that time, acres and buckets of it, lounging about together, eating together, arguing together, watching telly together, piling on the couch together.

Just: time together.

So I've been casting magic spells, too.

We'll get Christmas because I wear a mask every time I leave the house. We'll get Christmas, because this time I washed my hands to *two* verses of Jolene. We'll get Christmas because dammit, I've emptied bottle after bottle of hand sanitiser and my hands are chapped.

What's wrong with a bit of magical thinking? Especially when things are out of control.

And I'm not wrong-wrong. I'm helping in the only way I know how.

We're each doing what we can, and the aggregate of all these small decisions is what keeps a pandemic at bay.

Except when it doesn't. Except when it's cold and we're indoors with inadequate ventilation. Except when the pubs and restaurants have re-opened and – as @zeynep has explained so well – an airborne virus can infect in just 5 mins. https://twitter.com/zeynep/status/1334641685154902021

We cast magic spells & want to be rewarded for our efforts.

But pandemics aren't a morality play.

We can anthropomorphise the virus - as @HelenBranswell said earlier, it's hard not to frame this moment as the virus swinging back, just as the vaccine approaches. https://twitter.com/HelenBranswell/status/1341157600705056770

But the virus doesn't have a mind. It doesn't have intention. It infects, multiplies & sometimes it kills.

*We* impose the narratives.

In 1989, Charles Rosenburg – writing during the fury of another pandemic – said that epidemics have a dramaturgic form: narrative acts that begin with revelation and move through, in their second act, to 'managing randomness'.

https://www.jstor.org/stable/20025233?seq=5#metadata_info_tab_contents

An epidemic is chaotic and frightening, but stories of morality give us a sense of control.

These moral frameworks get in our way.

If we feel like we deserve Christmas, we are tempted to ignore the risks.

In the story we tell ourselves, we've had a long, hard year. In the story we tell ourselves, we deserve a rest.
In the story, we would never hurt the people we love.

These stories will get us killed.

These stories will get *those we most love* killed.

So, for god's sake, resist. Resist the draw of this particular story, the age-old (and ableist) mythology of illness and punishment and goodness and reward. Resist the morality play working its way through your mind and heart.

This virus is not a story.

The virus is a virus.

It will not stay away simply because it doesn't fit inside your idea of how your story must end.

*We* impose the narratives.

That means we can change them.

Because Christmas really isn't about the biscuits or the paper hats or who gets the dodgy seat on the couch or even the crispy bits of stuffing - it's the *feeling* I get when we all pile into my Mam's house.

*That's* what I want. *That's* what I hunger for.

If you can, ask yourself: what are the FEELINGS you really want to experience this Christmas? And how might you make that happen safely?

If you can't make Christmas happen safely, the way you want to, mourn the loss of that dream. Mourn it, so you can move on.

I can't decide for you what to do this Christmas. But I *can* say that you are x20 times more likely to be infected indoors than outdoors.

If you take off your mask to eat, even if Nana is sitting at a different table, you can still infect her. The virus spreads through the air.

Stay home this Christmas.

Wait for vaccines (they are close, they are coming).

This is the time of waiting. Of burning candles in windows while the storm rages on.

The storm will eventually pass and the waiting will end. Make *that* your story.

And if you still hunger for ritual (and who doesn't?) - try burning some invisible birthday candles.

It can't do any harm.

I know a little girl who swears by it.