It's a wrap
I hate Christmas.*
Controversial, or sadly conformist? Who cares. The whole season is a right royal pain in the arse. Except the bit about being nice to each other and stuff, but why can't we just do that all the time?
As a kid I used to find Christmas a time of high hopes and deep disappointment. True, I was never likely to get the presents my overactive sponge-mind wanted, but there was always that tiny possibility, that flicker of hope. Like the idiot who buys a lottery ticket, I would let my imagination run wild at the endless possibilities, the marvellous, jealousy-inducing presents I'd be getting. Come the day, nothing could live up to the hype my over-creative brain had built.
Except possibly the time my parents gave all three of us boys a petrol mower-engined go-kart. Since our house then was at the end of a mile and a half long private drive, it was brilliant - we just had to watch out for the cars of the other dozen houses that shared the road. But what made it better than anything else was that it was completely left-field, unexpected, un-asked for, and none of us managed to guess what it was going to be before the day. It lasted well, too. I think we were still driving it into rose bushes and generally causing mayhem about five years later.
Maybe it was because nothing could live up to the go-kart that Christmas started to get depressing, or maybe I was just moving smoothly into adolescent angst. Whatever the reason I have become ever more curmudgeonly as time has passed. I don't have a tree, and no decorations except the ones we've been given over the years as gifts. They stay in a draw.
Even down in the office, they know better than to decorate my computer, or play Christmas music in the office if I'm there (which is a bit strange, because I never actually complained about either. Maybe it was just my world-weary sighs).
Perhaps the best Christmas I've had in recent years was the first one we spent down here in Wales. Just me and Barbara** and three dogs (no cat back then). A couple of presents, a long walk in the snow and a goose for supper. Perfect.
Christmas, I have come to understand, is for children. And since I'm no longer physically a child, nor have any desire to have children of my own, that lifts a great deal of pressure off the event. But sadly not all.
Between us, Barbara and I have ten nephews and nieces (well, more actually, but there's a weird family feud thing going on with some of Barbara's so they don't get a look-in). That's ten presents to buy, for children ranging from two and half to sixteen and a half. Luckily for us we were in Singapore just over a month ago, and it's a really good place for buying unusual presents. Luckily for us too, we're not going anywhere this Christmas (and the goose is already ordered, can't do anything about the snow). On the down side, this means all those presents need to be wrapped, parceled up and posted to the four corners of the UK (which will likely cost almost as much as the presents themselves).
So this afternoon I have been mostly wrapping presents, rediscovering as I went along the bad side of unusual (shaped) gifts. But now it is done. Now I can put away the sharp scissors, paper and sticky tape, forget Christmas and get back to my miserable ways.
*OK, so hate is maybe a bit strong. But I am extremely indifferent to Christmas on a personal level and have to avoid major conurbations during the so-called 'festive' period for fear of being arrested.
**It occurs to me that a lot of bloggers refer to their significant others in a fondly amusing way. Mr Stuart lives in awe of She Who Comes From Fife; Ray has The Natural Brunette; and there are others out there if I could just remember. Well, Barbara has a PhD in equine nutrition, so perhaps I'll refer to her from now on as the Horse Doctor.***
***Or maybe that's a bit cruel.
Controversial, or sadly conformist? Who cares. The whole season is a right royal pain in the arse. Except the bit about being nice to each other and stuff, but why can't we just do that all the time?
As a kid I used to find Christmas a time of high hopes and deep disappointment. True, I was never likely to get the presents my overactive sponge-mind wanted, but there was always that tiny possibility, that flicker of hope. Like the idiot who buys a lottery ticket, I would let my imagination run wild at the endless possibilities, the marvellous, jealousy-inducing presents I'd be getting. Come the day, nothing could live up to the hype my over-creative brain had built.
Except possibly the time my parents gave all three of us boys a petrol mower-engined go-kart. Since our house then was at the end of a mile and a half long private drive, it was brilliant - we just had to watch out for the cars of the other dozen houses that shared the road. But what made it better than anything else was that it was completely left-field, unexpected, un-asked for, and none of us managed to guess what it was going to be before the day. It lasted well, too. I think we were still driving it into rose bushes and generally causing mayhem about five years later.
Maybe it was because nothing could live up to the go-kart that Christmas started to get depressing, or maybe I was just moving smoothly into adolescent angst. Whatever the reason I have become ever more curmudgeonly as time has passed. I don't have a tree, and no decorations except the ones we've been given over the years as gifts. They stay in a draw.
Even down in the office, they know better than to decorate my computer, or play Christmas music in the office if I'm there (which is a bit strange, because I never actually complained about either. Maybe it was just my world-weary sighs).
Perhaps the best Christmas I've had in recent years was the first one we spent down here in Wales. Just me and Barbara** and three dogs (no cat back then). A couple of presents, a long walk in the snow and a goose for supper. Perfect.
Christmas, I have come to understand, is for children. And since I'm no longer physically a child, nor have any desire to have children of my own, that lifts a great deal of pressure off the event. But sadly not all.
Between us, Barbara and I have ten nephews and nieces (well, more actually, but there's a weird family feud thing going on with some of Barbara's so they don't get a look-in). That's ten presents to buy, for children ranging from two and half to sixteen and a half. Luckily for us we were in Singapore just over a month ago, and it's a really good place for buying unusual presents. Luckily for us too, we're not going anywhere this Christmas (and the goose is already ordered, can't do anything about the snow). On the down side, this means all those presents need to be wrapped, parceled up and posted to the four corners of the UK (which will likely cost almost as much as the presents themselves).
So this afternoon I have been mostly wrapping presents, rediscovering as I went along the bad side of unusual (shaped) gifts. But now it is done. Now I can put away the sharp scissors, paper and sticky tape, forget Christmas and get back to my miserable ways.
*OK, so hate is maybe a bit strong. But I am extremely indifferent to Christmas on a personal level and have to avoid major conurbations during the so-called 'festive' period for fear of being arrested.
**It occurs to me that a lot of bloggers refer to their significant others in a fondly amusing way. Mr Stuart lives in awe of She Who Comes From Fife; Ray has The Natural Brunette; and there are others out there if I could just remember. Well, Barbara has a PhD in equine nutrition, so perhaps I'll refer to her from now on as the Horse Doctor.***
***Or maybe that's a bit cruel.
Comments
That’s what the festive season is for!
On the other hand, now that I have a child of my own, I like seeing the joy in his eyes on Christmas morning.