So, just as one is beginning to adjust to the reality that there will be no Christmas trip home to Britain this year, no family gathering under the exuberantly giant tree culled from a neighbour’s plantation, no bleary eyed brisk Downland ramble to the sea and back for a late lunch and a glass of shh… shh… Chablis, no squinting at the 1,000-piece puzzle fresh out of its box, no delicious Boxing Day leftovers and a spot more of that delicious chilled white, no last-minute rewiring of the vacuum cleaner/dishwasher/washing machine/tumble drier (take your pick), no surreptitious removal of the small dead rodent from the back of the cupboard, and that you can perfectly well get by in a tropical heatwave without missing it all too much, along comes the John Lewis ad.

Funny how it is the small things that really spark a wave of pseudo-nostalgia. I have never knowingly been to Tooting nor know if there really is a 222* (no doubt those clever people at the ad agency did their research and I suspect there is), but the appearance of the wonderfully childish cardboard bus, the little girl hopping off to the background announcement and the lovely destination board across the front of ‘222 Tooting’ suddenly seemed ridiculously British with a very capital B!

Wry humour, an ability not to take oneself too seriously, supremely professional apparent amateurism, and a lightness of touch seem to be the hallmarks of folk at the top of their game. No need here for the appallingly gauche that passes for comedy elsewhere in the world, nor the sledgehammer messaging service that leaves the viewer numbed into submission…; nope, here in a snapshot was enough to lever open the Christmas box marked “Nostalgia” or “Family” or “Home Thoughts from Abroad” (although I think that last one is already taken) and made one for a moment a tad wistful. Not “Love Actually” wistful with Bill Nighy blaring his all, but enough to make one pause briefly in the daily humidity and consider, if not the 222 at home then what, here?

Well, despite attempts at feeling sorry for those ‘lost abroad’ in the current circumstances, our relatives’ sympathy is limited. The government’s contradictory edicts have created turmoil, with various ministries trying to outdo each other for the honour of the obfuscation of the year award. While one group bans interstate travel another announces schools will close, all schools regardless of whether or not there is any covid around; you need to apply for a permit to leave the country but cannot be guaranteed a return. You might be able to travel within your state or there again you might not.

Here in Malaysia, the border with Singapore remains closed and the political equivalent of an arm wrestle seems to be going on over it. Singapore still smugly records covid numbers under two categories, the first for those with residential status and the second for those that don’t seem to matter to them, the coyly termed ‘guest workers’ who live in squalid dorms where viral transmission is almost inevitable. Their plight has been more eloquently recorded in Yvette Tan’s article “A Pandemic of Inequality” for the BBC. Malaysia’s mainland has very few cases and the state abutting Singapore (Johor) almost none. And yet there is still no movement across the bridges.

The downturn in the market here and the gross uncertainty of the Malaysian government’s actions for what are known as ‘Malaysia My 2nd Home’ owners (MM2H) have meant that quite a few expats have finally shut up shop and gone home, for good. This has left a variety of properties unexpectedly vacant, as well as, I suspect, quite a few vacancies at some top firms when things begin to normalise.

One such beautiful property has a pool, tiled with lovely stone from Bali, a quiet expansive veranda, beautiful beach chic furniture, table tennis (a must for any real holiday) and gentle wood floors across its many rooms; it might be a set for some elegant post-colonial Merchant Ivory drama. It will be our Christmas pad since the owners would rather it were occupied/rented than left empty like so many others. So dispensing with the long dark evenings, log burner and three layers of jumper we will be trying our hardest not to enjoy too many cocktails around the pool while El Cheffo prepares the BBQ for its burnt offering.

While we lounge in the heat, who knows, we may even be tempted to replay that ad all over again just to check what we might be missing back in Blighty.

Ting ting. Hold very tight please. (Ah, those were the days.)

*The 222, as anoraks report
Doesn’t go to Tooting at all.
It probably should if romance
Had its way but this route
Is Uxbridge to Hounslow.
I think you’ll find, according to TfL,
It’s the 77 from Waterloo.
Dull but true,
It’s not the 222.