I can't imagine this year's Christmas being any different from most of the preceding twenty.
I'm estranged from what's left of my family so there will be no family Christmas. Even when I was a child, Christmas Day was an immediate family affair; both of my parents were late children so my own grandparents (the three I knew; my dad's dad died the year before I was born) were very elderly people even when I was little; they lived a long way off and we saw them once or twice a year at most.
I have friends of course, and at one time they would all invite me to spend Christmas with them, and I would decline politely and with regret. You see, I have established my own Christmas tradition, and I like it. I loathe the run-up to Christmas with a passion, but I love the almost-perfect peace of the day itself.
It starts with a lie-in. The phone is switched off, the doors are locked.
Then I have a full breakfast, a hybrid Scottish/English one but only of the best ingredients: Waberthwaite Cumberland sausage, dry-cured Ayrshire bacon, best Stornoway black pudding, fried duck egg, boletus (ceps/porcini) mushrooms, tattie scones to mop up the egg yolk, and (this is important) fried, sliced Christmas pudding. All washed down with a dry martini, the one and only occasion when I drink at breakfast I should add but it's a special day.
What happens after that depends on the weather. If it's bright and sunny I'll go for a walk, carefully arranged so I'm home before it's fully dark. I might, and did one year, start Richard Wagner's Der Ring des Nibelung playing without interruption (14 hours without intervals and breaks between the four operas so start it at 10am and it ends about midnight). Or I might have a schedule of films to work through. For dinner I will have a duck – I hate turkey and when I have catered for larger numbers in the past I have always done the more traditional and much yummier goose, but that's far too much for one whereas a duck is perfect for one, with leftovers for tomorrow. This will be served with roast potatoes, mashed butternut squash and cavolo nero, without a brussels sprout in sight (I have eaten very well in Brussels on several occasions and I have never once seen a brussels sprout there – the Belgians have more sense. I loathe the things). It will be washed down with a nice bottle of Argentinian Malbec or similar.
Feeling sorry for me being on my own? Don't. I'm gregarious the rest of the year but at my time of life this is my excuse to spoil myself rotten. And the great thing is, Coronavirus can do nothing to ruin it!