Okay, I give in. Christmas is here. I’ve been in denial, like every year, since the first trimmings and greetings started appearing on shop fronts and eating places and the like. And since the heralding (a Christmassy word, I believe) of all the festive-laden TV fare that awaits most of the population who vegetate in front of the box for a fortnight or so at this time of year.
But I concede that, with a week to go, it is just about acceptable to recognise that there is a flurry of excitement about, not all of it plastered in false glitter and outrageous commercialism and materialism.
Bah humbug? You bet!
However, the frozen weather that has gripped the country has evoked thoughts of a ‘real’ Christmas, and yesterday we kind of sealed it by venturing out to buy the Christmas tree.
It was quickly followed by the ancient ceremony of me standing outside in the cold with a saw, fingers frozen solid, hacking away at the base of the trunk to shape it into a size that would fit the cast iron base that keeps it reasonably upright in the front room, if at a slightly wonky angle.
The cards, too, are done. A whole evening of toil, but somehow strangely satisfying to feel you are making contact with all those people in far-flung places that you really should have made an effort to contact in the rest of the year.
The presents, too, all seem to be in order. No thanks to me, I should add. I still can’t fathom who they are all for, and don’t really feel inclined to ask. But there seems to be a system, and it seems to work, too.
So a week, I think, is just about fine for the build-up to the big day. I don’t feel like I will be a spent force by the 25th, as I suspect are all those people who seem to have been labouring towards the ‘festive season’ for months.
In fact, I might just toy with another mince pie as I put up the mistletoe…
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