I’m not sure when my dislike of Christmas set in. Was it as a child? I don’t think so. I remember the excitement and routine, the stockings and tinsel on my parent’s bed, the marble run set up in the upstairs hall, the chairs we were allocated, the annual argument over whether to eat lunch before or after presents. I have happy memories of Christmas. And yet. Everyone in my family is the same. We view it as a chore, a bore, an inescapable thing to get through. It depresses us and makes us want to run for the hills. This year I’m hiding in the arms of old friends whose family will swallow me up in their joy and togetherness and make it all right, make it better. I will be tempered. My children are off with girlfriends and their father, my siblings are disbanding in five different directions, our mother is dead but this isn’t the first year we’ve elected not to be together; we’ve voted this way before.
So when did it start? When did high streets of baubles make me wild, when did Seasons Greetings and aisles of glitter chocolate make me hate people? I have to avoid high streets. I stay out of shops. I don’t want to feel this way but I do. I become judgemental (more judgemental). I think everyone’s an idiot. I can’t understand why they fall for it year after year. I rarely want anything present-like but at Christmas I really don’t want anything. I actively reject the idea of receiving. It makes me feel bad.
And the giving? I give to my children (of course I do) and I will give to Margaret who’s catching my Christmas fall with the arms of her family, but that’s it. I don’t want to trail about searching for tokens to symbolise I love you. If I love you (which I do) I’ll give to you all year round in actual tokens of affection; a phone call when I’m thinking of you, a small present sent for no other reason than that it’ll make you laugh or brighten your day or comfort you when you need it. This has happened to me this year, surprise presents arriving in the post inspired not by some arbitrary knee jerk to an annoying Christian date but by actual loving kindness. These have meant the entire world.
So bollocks to Christmas, and sorry if you love it and I have depressed you. This morning my friend Melissa was looking for the mice living in her curtains and dug out this card I sent her years ago. I am working on it.
Eleanor
