It’s taken me longer than usual to get in to the festive spirit this year.
“Can it just be over already?” I thought as the first Christmas ads started appearing on TV and the ubiquitous tins of biscuits in the shops.
I wondered if it was Covid’s long tail that was making me feel this way and the idea of Christmas shopping with my glasses on permanent fog (thanks, mask).
Or was it thoughts of climate change, and images of unnecessary gifts, discarded wrapping paper and opened crackers cluttering up our planet?
Eventually I figured out the answer was neither of these things. The real reason for my lack of Christmas spirit was more simple than Covid or climate change. It was a lack of Christmas parties.
In previous years, the weeks before Christmas would have been full of celebratory coffees, lunches and office parties. It’s one of the advantages of having a group of colleagues at this time of year. The main disadvantage is having to come up with creative excuses as to why you won’t be participating in the annual Kris Kringling affair (“I can’t be arsed” just doesn’t cut it.).
This year, though, is different. I’m no longer working in an office. I have no workmates, unless you count our five cats and Arki the terrorist. At 19 Johnston Street, it’s just me. Home alone. With that ever-present voice on my shoulder saying, “You should be working on your novel. You should be working in the garden. You should be working on anything. Don’t be lazy!”
Grant me the courage to change the things I can, says the Serenity Prayer. As a semi-retired writer, it doesn’t take a lot of courage to declare oneself on holiday. But as the commitments I do have (online coaching, voluntary work and writing for the Phoenix) are winding down for the year, it’s time to do exactly that. And just saying to myself, “I’m on holiday” has led to an immediate uplift in my festive spirit.
Then there’s the Christmas tree. When Barnard suggested putting it up, I almost groaned. But once it was out of the box I couldn’t wait to start decorating.
The previous owners of the Card House left behind a 3-metre artificial fir tree that only just fits in our front bay window (technically it’s a bow window rather than a bay, but more on that in a future post). The tree has super-thick branches, giving it a real-life feel, but the downside is it takes a huge amount of Christmas tat to cover it.
Luckily we’ve got what could only be called an obscene supply of hanging balls. After we’d covered the tree, I tipped the leftover ones into a collection of platters and bowls which I scattered round the house to give each room a bit of festive cheer.
For me, listening to Christmas carols is another important part of the build-up. I’m the proud owner of three Salvation Army Big Band Carols collections, Hayley Westenra’s Christmas Magic, the Starship Foundation Christmas album and best of all, Michael Bublé’s Christmas. The last sometimes veers from schmaltzy to slightly dodgy (“Merry Christmas, ladies.” “Merry Christmas, Mr Bublé!” “Are you ready to sing a little [dramatic pause] Jingle Bells?” “Yeeeeessss!”). But it’s all in the spirit.
My all-time favourite Christmas songs include the Pogues’ ‘Fairytale of New York’. How can you not love a band which has the balls to sing, “You scumbag, you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot” at Christmas? (I’m also fond of Silent Night, for entirely different reasons.)
Then, of course, there’s Christmas shopping. My tried and true routine in recent years has been – brace yourself – doing it all on Christmas Eve. I would arrive at the local shopping mall as soon as it opened, clutching the gift list I’d been carefully curating for several weeks. Usually I’d have it all crossed off in two to three hours, by which time I’d be ready to treat myself to a coffee and muffin before returning home to wrap my gifts while drinking bubbles and listening to the Bublé.
But this year, thoughts of wearing a mask and scanning in at every shop caused my focus to shift to online shopping. Without giving anything away to family members reading this post, I have to say it’s worked out rather well.
There’s something else that’s different about Christmas this year. Arki. It’s our first festive season with the shaggy beast in our lives. Barnard has been imploring my stepchildren, Lisa and Robert, to buy him gifts (“He’s your brother!”). Not that he deserves it.
In his latest escapade, Arki jumped the fence as I was heading out for a walk and followed me down to the Empire Hotel on the corner. I pretended to run back home, hoping he would follow me, but instead he took a right-turn through the pub’s open front door and trotted past a group of drinking patrons and an unsuspecting chef into the kitchen (the pantry, to be exact).
While Barnard rushed in to find Arki, I waited at the door, fielding jovial enquiries as to whether he was vaccinated. Eventually he was caught and dragged back home. He’ll be getting an electric dog fence for Christmas.
So yes, it’s taken a while, but I can honestly say I’m now feeling the festive love. Speaking of that, thanks to everyone who has read and subscribed to my blog this year. It means a lot and I hope you’ve enjoyed it. Stay tuned for more adventures in 2022!
Feliz Navidad. Buon Natale. Geseënde Kersfees. Meri Kirihimete. Merry Christmas from The Card House.
Comments