Round Robin Rant

With the exception of the wedding invite blurb, which is not quite the same thing, I’m pleased to say that I’ve never sent a round robin letter. This is possibly because I don’t have a five-year-old grade 8 flautist called Xanthe about whom I can crow. I am, however, receiving more of these each year, which I note is a sign of my advancing both in age and up the social scale.

It might be perhaps a little unfair, but have you noticed that you’re much more likely to receive such a letter from Kaftanned of Stoke Newington waxing lyrical about their new organic cheese business which they’re juggling with renovating the villa in Perugia than you are from Broke of Buttershaw showing off about his newly-acquired second-hand van? And whereas we appreciate hearing all about what our friends in Dallas have been up to over the past year, we do wonder why our friends in Arnos Grove don’t haul their asses to an equidistant pub some time and tell us their news in person.

The content of these letters, though, as Simon Hoggart has constantly illustrated far more humorously than I ever can, is occasionally worth the irritation you feel at being otherwise ignored then gloated at. There are three types of round robin letters. The first are the ones that smugly relate the various achievements of the various offspring (Little Ammonia has mastered ancient Greek even though she’s only four and is hoping to start her degree at Cambridge next year, and Emphysema has just won Young Musician of the Year despite still being little more than an embryo.) The second are from people who mistakenly think that you should share their pain, and include lines such as “We were sad to lose our beloved cat Freddie" (the cats invariably have more sensible names than the children) "under the wheels of a Vauxhall Corsa in May, just weeks after dear Mummy fell into the Avon and drowned.” The third are rather more earnest, and invariably (though not always) much less fun, and usually from people who themselves cringe at the thought of jumping on the Round Robin bandwagon, but have to find some way of fielding all the “and what are the children up to these days?” questions from far-flung friends, the lack of such a news update implying that Sebastian and Antonia have passed their ten GCSEs and 4 A levels with straight As at 16 and 18 respectively, and after all, what is newsworthy about that? The only humorous examples related to us this year were a friend who let his 16-year-old daughter edit the letters, so they all went out announcing that said daughter was studying A levels in English, History, Maths and Hard Drugs, and another (sent to a friend) which with sweet sincerity announced “Amber has been diagnosed with dyslexia, which if I’m honest is quite a relief because we all thought she was just a bit dim.”

As most of our friends are too young to have yet produced Nobel Prizewinners we haven’t had too many of the first example (though one friend insists her 5-month-old is “a lovely little talker” and already saying “Mama and Dada” etc. The English graduate in me may write in the New Year to say how pleased I am that she’s following expected phonological development patterns and experimenting with nasal and fricative sounds which are often mistaken for real words but are in fact part of the “babbling stage” prior to the Holophrastic stage of language growth, for which they’ll need to wait another 6 months of so. Only I’m not that sad.) A second showed that the writer hadn’t thought about his whole audience, seeming to have geared his letters to out-of-London or, I should hope, overseas friends, regaling them with the news (as though any of them care) that “We had our mayoral elections in London this year, and I’m pleased to say that Boris Johnson was victorious, replacing our previous incumbent, a change long overdue in our opinion!” Aside from the fact that, as a Camden-based Socialist, I’m more than aware of the result of the mayoral election, that letter may as well read “Dear Lefties. Ha ha ha ha. Ha ha. Ha ha ha, and did I mention, ha ha ha. Yours, Smug Tory Git.”

If I were to write one this year it would sound like a whinging and somewhat unlikely season of Corrie, what with our sewage flood in April, fatalities of both family and friends, and would end “then in November someone died in our lounge.” So I didn’t write one, and I'm sure you're all grateful.

I was musing (at 3am the other morning, so it might make more sense in my head) what one of these self-congratulatory little pieces of dribble might sound like were it write by a contemporary from my past rather than my cosy, saccharin-coated present. Perhaps something like:

“Dear All,

Well! What a year it’s been! The children are all growing up so quickly and yet again haven’t ceased to amaze us this year. Kelly got her first ASBO in March, ahead of some of her classmates. She is also still playing hockey and truant, and we are looking forward to our first grandchild in 2009! Kev has got a new job and took part in several successful robberies earlier this year, but was arrested in June when he accidentally caused an explosion at our local petrol station. We’re all very sad as this will be the first Christmas he’ll be spending away from home. Steve is still looking for a job, but is excelling on the fruit machines, having won three pounds in October. He also came third in the local darts tournament – we were all very proud!We were very sad to lose Gnasher, our beloved Rottweiler of 12 years, who was put down in September after biting an old lady outside the post office. He will be missed, but we hope you will all be able to meet Satan the Alsatian (picture enclosed) soon. We hope you are all well and that we will see more of you in 2009.”

I apologise for the deplorable social stereotyping throughout – it's neither big nor clever, but it did keep my simple brain amused for a good few minutes, and I hope it will encourage you to talk to me and actually share your lives with me in 2009 rather than saving up the smug bits for next December.