On my fridge door, jostling for space with a magnetic miniature pair of Dutch clogs and a trio of Gibraltarian monkeys, is a gallery of about 25 photos, all very similar. They are of my husband, myself and our two kids in various configurations, in various get-ups (think wigs, Elton John glasses and feather boas) at various simchahs. They are a mishmash of smiling faces, sultry expressions and the prerequisite silly poses, befitting these passport-style photos. When we had stopped arguing over who would wear the sparkly boa or the blonde wig (and that was just me and my husband), there are even a couple where all four of us have our eyes open and are looking at the camera.

During the Great Lockdown#1 Sort Out of 2020, my husband nobly took it upon himself to declutter the fridge. After size-ordering, colour-coding and alphabetising its contents, he set to work on the important bit — the outside, the showstopper, the bit people are actually interested in.

All the photos were laid out on the worktop and put into keep/throw piles. To qualify for the “keep” pile, they had to fulfil three criteria — we all had to look okay, we’d enjoyed the simchah and had to assume that one post-Covid day, the party hosts might come over and be mightily offended if the photo of their party hadn’t made the final cut. In the end, about two photos were binned and the rest were returned to their prime location among the miniature clogs and monkeys.

Why did we keep so many of these photos? Over the next few months (or — dare I say it? — years), there won’t be an influx of pictures vying to fill this space.

That’s not to say I haven’t enjoyed the Zoomitzvahs I have attended (including my own daughter’s), watching them from the comfort of my own home (and in my own pyjamas) without the hassle of finding a parking space. I have hugely appreciated the goodie bags people have delivered in advance, complete with party poppers and even bath salts on one occasion. Were they expecting us to Zoom in from the bath, I wonder?

As Lockdown#1 relaxed and bar/bat mitzvahs (which,if you don’t look too closely, are really just like weddings) progressed to gatherings of 30 people, we were invited for hour-long “shifts”. These hosts have nailed it, I thought. Great food, a few funny speeches and just when the conversation was getting a bit dull, it was perfectly acceptable to look at your watch, give an apologetic grimace and say, “Gosh — is that the time? Really must be going. Social distancing and all that.”

To put a dampener on things, numbers were then limited to 15 people, which basically meant all the people you had to invite (aka family) and none of the people you wanted to invite (aka friends). Now the government has worked out that most British people can’t count and weddings and wedding-type events have been banned altogether.

But hey, at least there are still funerals to look forward to — if you are one of the lucky 30 people to get on to the guest-list. It is indeed a sad state of affairs when we feel an incy-wincy bit excited about going to a levoyah just so we can have a chat with another human being, even if that amounts to little more than shouting: “I wish you long life!” from a two-metre distance through a face-mask.

So, as much as I nod in saintly agreement with all the people who have talked about one of the “upsides” of Covid (if there are such things) being less ostentatious parties, not spending the equivalent of the cost of a small island on one night and less pressure to keep up with the Cohens, I can’t help but look wistfully at my fridge door. It might be totally un-PC to admit this right now, so lean in since I am going to whisper it — I miss a big simchah. I miss those awkward run-ins with people from my 1989 summer camp, whose names I am never quite sure of; I miss going to a place where it is totally acceptable for a 40-something-year-old to have a glitter mermaid plastered on to the side of her face and I even miss getting my foot stamped on by a drunken middle-aged man dancing to Jump Around.

And who doesn’t miss the after-party “dissection”, when everything from the hosts’ clothes and the speeches through to the personalised menu cards are the subject of intense scrutiny over coffee in Gail’s?

I am not in any way advocating we make a stand against lockdown rules by organising a mass hora outside the Houses of Parliament. On the contrary, I feel sickened and ashamed when I hear about the clandestine simchahs being organised in unused warehouses by people who believe that neither the laws of the land nor the laws of viral transmission apply to them. But it doesn’t mean I can’t pine for a more celebratory era.

It’s true that many of the kids whose parties have been cancelled don’t actually mind and have preferred the more intimate experience of a small or virtual gathering. When you are on the cusp of adolescence, witnessing your inebriated father dancing to Gangnam Style or your mother shimmying up to a sinewy male dancer, whose mum has told him to be home before midnight, is not how you would usually choose to spend an evening.

But what these kids don’t realise is what we also didn’t realise at their age. These parties aren’t meant for them. They are for us parents. We need an excuse to glam up, let our hair down and embarrass our kids. Parties are ultimately a means of suspending reality for a few hours. And that’s something we could all do with right now.