Dear Christmas

I have resisted the urge, since last September, to start moaning about you.  The first Christmas department opened as soon as the Back to School stuff went off the shelves, and I had to grit my teeth every time I accidentally wandered in there, or even passed by. 

But now, I feel, it is no longer too early to moan about Christmas.  Because in fairness, if I don’t moan now, it might be too late, the whole thing will be over by the time I get going.

The first visible sign of Christmas, in most houses, is when the Christmas tree goes up.  I don’t know how people cope, having the tree up from the start of December, or even, in some houses, the last weekend in November.

If we put a tree up this year, and we mightn’t bother, seeing as we won’t be here on the big day itself, it’ll be the weekend before Christmas, in other words the 22^nd December.  I know that might seem a bit late and grinchy to most people, but my last working day is 21^st December, so Christmas only really starts then.

Also, even though our dogs are really well house trained, I’m afraid they’ll get confused when they see a tree in the house and think it’s like the forest His Nibs walks them in, and that they have to pee on it.  If that happens, the three legged one, Oscar, the most accident prone dog in Ireland, will surely pee directly onto a fairy light and give himself a willie burn that needs medical attention, which is both costly and inconvenient.

Also, I am terrified of heights.  And we, like most people, keep our Christmas decorations in the attic. Every year, I ask His Nibs to take down the decorations.  And every year he refuses, because he just can’t be bothered, and he doesn’t want to have his view of the television blocked by my walking around the tree for hours trying to get it to look festive without being tacky.

Every Christmas week I ask him to go up into the attic to root around in the cold and the dark and find the decorations.  And every time, he refuses.

“Love, will you go up to the attic and get the decorations?”

“No, I won’t”.

“But why?”

“Because I don’t want to, and it’s a load of old nonsense.  We won’t be here for Christmas, what’s the point?”

“But I don’t want to come back on St. Stephen’s Day to a house without even a tree in it.”

“But on St Stephens Day Christmas is over anyway.  No love, I’m not going to do it.”

“Don’t be such a pig.  You’re ruining Christmas.”

He won’t give in, of course, and I won’t give in and forget the Christmas tree plan.  I decide I'll just do it myself.  So I sigh and moan and make a drama, and shout at the dogs to stay in the living room (with maximum fuss) so that they won’t knock over the stepladder.

Eventually he comes to watch, and when he gets bored of me gripping onto the ladder, and the edges of the attic door and shaking so much that the whole ladder trembles, he gives in and runs up the ladder, sure footed as a mountain goat and gets the decorations down.

Getting the tree up seems to take forever, but to be honest, I do start feeling a bit more festive and Christmassy once it’s done.

Last year, I lost the head completely.  Some of His Nibs’ family were in Australia, so they weren’t getting together.  So I decided I’d cook dinner here, in our own kitchen.  Obviously a chicken would have done us, but I wanted to go the whole hog, so I bought a turkey and a fillet of ham, peeled four times too many vegetables, and got up early on Christmas morning to cook the stupid thing.

I thought it would be a good idea to put the fecker in a roasting bag – they’re meant to be brilliant, aren’t they? So I did.  And I will never understand this, but it imploded.  The turkey sort of collapsed, and was strangely flat when I took it out of the roasting bag.  The pressure, obviously, of the whole turkey breast dropping with force onto the bottom of it, caused all the stuffing to squirt out of the various orifices, so that the flat bird was now sort of floating on the soggy stuffing.  His Nibs, rather than being disappointed or comparing it to his mother’s cooking, became hysterical, which was somehow more offensive.

Strange to say, it was delicious.  Not in any way dry or tasteless, as turkey can be.  I missed the stuffing though.

Of course, before we even get to the turkey worry, there’s the entire present caper to deal with.  I love buying presents, especially when I’ve saved up the money to do with, and don’t have to choose between buying gifts for my loved ones and paying the mortgage.  Once I’ve figured out what to buy people, it’s a joy.  I even quite enjoy wrapping them, once I do it at the right moment, usually just after I’ve put up the tree and am feeling Christmassy.

What I resent is the people who suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, and often after years of normal friendship, start throwing presents at you, usually a couple of days before Christmas, and often in your own house, when you can’t even pretend you’ve left their gift at home.

Why would anyone do that?  If you’re going to buy me a present, please let me know by 5^th December at the latest.  That will save me from rooting around under the stairs looking for a long forgotten bottle of wine to hand back.

This year I’ve had the presence of mind to buy a lovely scented candle, and wrap it up.  My theory is that if a woman comes in and gives me a random present, I can give her the candle.  If another woman comes in and does the same, I can give them the first woman’s present to me.  If a man comes in and gives us an unexpected present, and a scented candle isn’t appropriate for him, I’m in trouble.  Thankfully, I don’t think I know a single man who is likely to do that.  If nobody turns up with something unexpected, I’m left with a lovely scented candle.  Aren’t I clever?

I’m always sucked into the whole caper in the end.  On Christmas morning, even though we’re almost never in our house, there is usually at least two cheese boards in the fridge.  And about eight bags of coal in the garden.  There's at least two tubs of butter in the fridge, and about a litre of fresh cream.   It's like I don't know the difference between Christmas and Armageddon.
The only tablecloth we own has shiny holly leaves on it.  Even though we’ve had Christmas dinner in our house once in our lives.  How come we don’t need a tablecloth all year but have one for Christmas?  Complete with napkins and a table runner.  I didn’t even know, until I saw them hanging beside the table cloths in the shop last year, what a table runner was.  But that’s Christmas for you.

When the big day finally arrives, there’s a certain amount of pressure to enjoy it, sort of like the relaxation room after having a massage.  You’ve opened your presents, your dinner isn’t ready yet, and there’s a certain amount of time that needs to be killed without taking the smile off your face.  Because God forbid that any one of us be accused of ruining Christmas. 

If His Nibs and I are together, the time flies by while we fight about our selection boxes.  He’s one of eight, and I’m one of six, and in the eighties, nobody bought that many selection boxes for one family.  We’re Irish, we just got a tin of Roses.  So now every year, to make up for it, we get a selection box each. 

I don’t like that Cadbury’s have now started doing His Favourites and Her Favourites. 

They both have a Crunchie, a Wispa and a Twirl.  But where the boys then have a Double Decker, a Dairy Milk, a Picnic and a Curly Wurly, the girls are left with a Flake, a Caramel, a Wispa Gold and Buttons.

I’m not happy.  In my opinion, a Caramel and a Wispa Gold are basically the same thing;  Cadbury’s chocolate with Caramel inside.  A Flake, which is kind of pointless where there’s a Twirl as well and a bag of Buttons instead of a nice chunky Dairy Milk?  I think not.  It’s two boys selections boxes for us.

This is what will happen.  We will get our selection boxes, we’re both delighted, he eats his favourite, then he tries to eat his favourite out of my selection box.  So I have a tantrum.  Then he has a tantrum.  The selection boxes are ruined, because I tell him to feck off and take the stupid Double Decker if it means that much to him, and he actually does.  He clearly knows nothing about women.

I suppose this is the thing.  Christmas comes, and goes, every year, whether it's been a good year or a bad one.  If you don't like it, it's really only one day that you have to get through.  If you like it, then feck it, throw yourself into it with gay abandon, go mental. 

Even though I spend all my time until the tenth of December giving out about it starting too early, it's here now.  Let's enjoy it.

Feck it, I'll put up a Christmas tree.  Maybe even next weekend, Oscar will have to take his chances.  I'll be using the shot glasses I accidentally bought in IKEA.  Copiously, I hope.  I'll be eating nice, intact turkey in my mother's house.

And I'm bringing my own selection box with me.  I might even set myself the challenge of getting it all eaten before His Nibs arrives up in the evening to take his share of it.