My Christmas has (sort of) come early this year. As Omicron sweeps the UK, my annual festive warmup routine – cramming on to a train, dragging a heavy suitcase and clutching an overpriced sandwich that was chosen in a cold sweat at King’s Cross station – was brought forward by an entire week. After getting my booster and testing negative, I decided to travel early to give myself the best chance of seeing relatives safely come Christmas Day. I’m fortunate to be able to work remotely in the meantime – in fact, I’m writing this while on my train journey, listening to chief medical officer Chris Whitty at Wednesday’s Downing Street briefing say, “there are lots of things we don’t know, but all the things we do know are bad”. With my train speeding homeward, it once again feels as if the UK is hurtling towards disaster. I wonder if Christmas will feel normal, or at least non-apocalyptic, ever again? Before the pandemic, I’d have rolled my eyes at the idea of longing for Christmas-as-usual. As an adult I had become gradually more Scrooge-like. When you no longer view Christmas through childhood eyes, you realise just how much work, money and time goes into making it special. Sometimes it just felt so wasteful: buying people gifts they might not like and certainly don’t need. Apparently more than 2m kg of cheese is thrown away in the UK every year, which feels almost criminal. Then Christmas 2020 happened. Like many people, I had my suitcase waiting by the door when everything changed because of the tier 4 Covid restrictions. The next day, I bought a tree and resolved to make the best of things. I’d spend Christmas as I’d spent the rest of the year: sat inside my flat, 400 miles from my family. Lockdown Christmas was a mixed bag. On the plus side, I felt rested by the end. But I missed my mum’s decorations and the almost-annual tradition of her suggesting we order a curry instead of making a big Christmas dinner, then changing her mind at the last minute. I even missed the things I thought I disliked: navigating family politics and the exhausting pressure to see as many people as possible. It turns out that you can splash out on food, eat those red Lindor chocolates for breakfast and drink prosecco until you’re fending off acid reflux, but Christmas isn’t the same without the feeling that you’re in cahoots with people you haven’t seen in a while. Our festive rituals distract from the routine of “normal” life and close the distance – physical, cultural, generational – that usually separates us. The pandemic has shifted our mindset time and time again. People who hated going to the gym were queueing to get back in there when they reopened this summer. Self-described “introverts” started craving social interaction. Some people even began to miss working in an office. So with Christmas playing “treat them mean, keep them keen” in 2020, and “hard to get” this year, I find myself obsessed with it. Now, I honestly can’t remember a Christmas when I’ve felt more festive. I put my tree up in November and I’m not even slightly irritated by the ads that are monopolising my TV screen. Some plans may have to change, but I’m still holding out hope of experiencing Christmas in all its glory: do any straight people want a debate about Norway’s newly gay Santa? Or perhaps that lyric from Fairytale of New York? (Actually, I draw the line there). After a year of such upheaval, I’m not going to take Christmas for granted. Yes, it can be claustrophobic, tiring and sprinkled with festive familial tension. And yes, it can sometimes feel like work. But ever since it became normal to worry that Christmas could be cancelled, I can see that there is so much hope in the work that goes into making it special. I want to appreciate that this year. Louis Staples writes about the internet, culture and society