Why can’t Christmas just be fun?
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It’s not even December and already the sodding trees have gone up. Apparently, I should have started planning about two months ago; I’m already behind. The blasted magazines all have their Christmas editions – spouting crap about how Christmas has to be ‘magical’, ‘the best ever’, and how this or that celebrity is definitely doing it better than you. I haven’t cooked my homemade cranberry, the table decorations from White Company are unordered, and I’m not even sure what a hatchimal is.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I really like
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Christmas. Religion aside (because, after all, Christmas has nothing to do with religion nowadays), it’s definitely something to look forward to on those dark December evenings. I so look forward to spending the time with my family, and hey, it’s always nice to get presents. Eating and drinking some of my favourite things is also involved, and who doesn’t like that? But somewhere along the line, hasn’t it all got just a bit too much? Why does it have to be so stressful? Why all the pressure, the hard work, the commercialism, the money? Can’t we
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all just have fun?
A recent WhatApp discussion across my son’s preschool Mummys revealed that the majority of costumes for the Christmas show will be bought from Amazon. Last year I sewed some fluffy bits on a grey tracksuit and hey presto – a reindeer. This apparently was not enough… This year we have some spiky green felt monstrosity with baubles – I’m sure it’s a fire risk, which his Lordship will probably refuse to wear (he’s a Christmas tree).
I’m saved a large proportion of this malarkey because somehow the squeaker is
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unperturbed by Christmas. He gets a stocking but I haven’t really mentioned Santa. I’m not sure how to plausibly explain a bearded man who sneaks around our house at night without freaking the living shit out of him. He likes presents, getting chocolate for breakfast all through December (a habit that was hell to break in January last year), singing jingle bells and the whistling/kissing reindeer (thanks for that one, B&Q) but apart from that it rather passes him by. I like his attitude, quite frankly.
So this year, I’m going to buy some
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nice presents, put up our crappy artificial ten-year-old-nine-ninety-nine tree from Asda, and look forward to spending some time with the family. I promise I’ll help with the washing-up, peel some spuds and I’ll probably watch the Strictly special. If you insist, I might even eat too much and put on some weight. You know what? That’s magical enough for me.
Merry Christmas.
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Louisa de Lange - 30 Nov 16
It’s not even December and already the sodding trees have gone up. Apparently, I should have started planning about two months ago; I’m already behind. The blasted magazines all have their Christmas editions – spouting crap about how Christmas has to be ‘magical’, ‘the best ever’, and how this or that celebrity is definitely doing it better than you. I haven’t cooked my homemade cranberry, the table decorations from White Company are unordered, and I’m not even sure what a hatchimal is.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I really like Christmas. Religion aside (because, after all, Christmas has nothing to do with religion nowadays), it’s definitely something to look forward to on those dark December evenings. I so look forward to spending the time with my family, and hey, it’s always nice to get presents. Eating and drinking some of my favourite things is also involved, and who doesn’t like that? But somewhere along the line, hasn’t it all got just a bit too much? Why does it have to be so stressful? Why all the pressure, the hard work, the commercialism, the money? Can’t we all just have fun?
A recent WhatApp discussion across my son’s preschool Mummys revealed that the majority of costumes for the Christmas show will be bought from Amazon. Last year I sewed some fluffy bits on a grey tracksuit and hey presto – a reindeer. This apparently was not enough… This year we have some spiky green felt monstrosity with baubles – I’m sure it’s a fire risk, which his Lordship will probably refuse to wear (he’s a Christmas tree).
I’m saved a large proportion of this malarkey because somehow the squeaker is unperturbed by Christmas. He gets a stocking but I haven’t really mentioned Santa. I’m not sure how to plausibly explain a bearded man who sneaks around our house at night without freaking the living shit out of him. He likes presents, getting chocolate for breakfast all through December (a habit that was hell to break in January last year), singing jingle bells and the whistling/kissing reindeer (thanks for that one, B&Q) but apart from that it rather passes him by. I like his attitude, quite frankly.
So this year, I’m going to buy some nice presents, put up our crappy artificial ten-year-old-nine-ninety-nine tree from Asda, and look forward to spending some time with the family. I promise I’ll help with the washing-up, peel some spuds and I’ll probably watch the Strictly special. If you insist, I might even eat too much and put on some weight. You know what? That’s magical enough for me.
Merry Christmas.
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Writer. Debut novel, The Dream Wife, published by Orion in Oct 18. I have too many bookcases, too many books I haven't read and an addiction to American TV. Find me on Twitter at @paperclipgirl and Facebook at @ldlwriter.