Everyone remembers - somewhat - their youth, and memories of festive celebration: cracker-pulling, tree-decorating, mince-pie-eating. Back in the good old days, when Christmas was a magical season of joy and family time.
Regretfully, we’re no longer six years old. We spend more hours of our lives planning Christmas than celebrating it. Not just what, but who, where, when. If you have to celebrate with Mum and Dad you can’t be with Aunty and Uncle. You can go on Boxing Day. And on Christmas Eve you can be with the in-laws. I need a project manager. I need Excel spreadsheets with precise timings. And on the 23rd you can…
But actually, no you can’t. You’ll be getting last-minute essentials in. You can’t be making a last-minute dash to Tesco on Christmas Eve - there’ll be nothing left! It’ll be rammed! Everyone knows this - which is the problem precisely. The 23rd has become the 24th - the day of rush and clamour for some carrots and parsnips. Not got a turkey? Absolutely no chance. That corner of the aisle will be long forgotten - isolated, desert-esque. You can probably join the others in looking for an alternative. Chicken? If you’re lucky. Beef mince? More likely. Spag bol for Christmas dinner. Everyone complains of turkey’s dryness - no one truly enjoys it - but come home with the wrong poultry and Grandma and Grandad will be throwing passive-aggressive one liners like you’ve never heard before.
None of the family will be too grateful for gifts you pick out and hand-wrap, no matter how hard you try. Throwing away a huge chunk of your earnings isn’t excessive, it’s expected, in their eyes. In return? Socks, chocolate boxes, a Lynx set (thanks Gran, I’m not twelve anymore though). My heart aches for ‘Christmas at Mum’s’ and ‘Christmas at Dad’s’ kids. Two Christmases? Consecutively? A double shift? Surely there are only so many fake smiles one can physically perform.
For most of us, it’s Christmas day itself. You’re broke, already sick of the relatives, underwhelmed by gifts. A wave of relief hits as you wave them off (it’s 8pm now, they had overstayed their welcome hours ago). ‘Same time next year?’
Same time next year.
We have to. Tradition, right?
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