Christmas for me started 25th November. My housemates, suddenly feeling very festive decided that they would start to spread christmas 'cheer' all over the house, smothering it in red felt, eco plastic leaves and sparkly gold miniatures. I should have known the lame plastic tree with its cardboard prosthetic third limb was sure to be a metaphor of the month to come:
The end of term had me returning to my roots. Such a regression isn't a healthy experience. Arriving back home to a cold room, left in a state of gross disrepair from the rush to leave it several months before further dragged me down. An intense need to clean and and restore came over me, thankfully occupying me for a day or so. Then the wait set in. The week or so of waiting for christmas to finally drag its sad rag over the country, with its' intoxicating veil woven from biscuits with cheese, Quality Street wrappers and other unnecessary foods, foods where gluten free is replaced with lead. A sudden urge grips us, tells us not to leave the house, to stay inside and eat until one is so heavy, should they want to leave, they couldn't. Pinned down by one last toffee penny a sleepless night awaits them only to have a rude awakening earlier then the milk man is familiar with.
The excitement of presents in reality is just pent up disappointment. The wrapped gift containing any possibility is generally more exciting then what it really holds. What could be a slate of chocolate turns out to be a pin board. A large box turns out to be mainly foam quaver curls and an assortment of charity shop (give away) finds. With the 'its not what I expected' finished, the true scale of what is about to happen occurs, for one looking for a small bottle of milk to spice up a bowl of cornflakes; there, in the fridge, threatening to collapse on the person who dares remove the Lurpak from the Jenga tower of christmas destined-for-the-bin dinner. Cludo's who killed Big Bird challenge now narrows to the occupants of the house, as a brail covered raw slump of turkey frowns down from the top shelf. Baby carrots, potatoes; all varieties, sprouts, jars, cold meats, bottles and even that lump of mould that should have been better forgotten stands to be scooped up in the rush to the roasting dish. Hours are spent in the preparation of Christmas dinner. Many layers of goose fat, is lathered into the meat, the result being one very relaxed roast. Balls of stuffing; the foodie equivalent of the russian doll is pulled out of the bird, along with a slice of lemon and and a bay leaf. The masking gravy turns all things white and fluffy into the hue of the day; brown. An increased desire to play with mild explosives is well within reach at the table. For crackers, costing the equivalent of a deposit of a static caravan are balanced on the desert spoon. An enthusiastic pull, requiring a referee of fair pulling boils down to a disappointing 'pop' and a smashed class as stainless steel business card holder propels to the table. The rustling of a paper hat against ones ear is the white noise distraction from the dishwater conversation available. The end result is a group of people all looking like the red attired santa clause who turns out to be an unlikely role model. The table, once cleared, but not washed, is later to be adorned with frozen christmas deserts. No longer do we get the fun of burning brandy over an antique spotted dick pudding. Only at the last crunch of mint chocolate Vienetta do everybody admit defeat and experience the Herculean effort of moving oneself to the sofa, where one must lounge and be blasted with 'comfort telly'.
At about 8pm, when everyone is sick of each others company, and NHS direct are diagnosing cabin fever, everyone decides that it is time they go to bed as they are all very tired. At this point Christmas should be over.
Instead however, it drags on into new year until finally the cut off period seems to fall about the 5th of January. Christmas is over. Just about.
Christmas for me seems to have taken a long time to get over. One day on a calendar has managed to consume a whole season, and yet it is not over me yet; "You will get your christmas present emailed to you" I have been told. If this is an Elf Yourself experience, I would have to inform them that the closing date of that has gone. Now I just wait and see with anticipation. I suppose the good thing about an email is, you don't expect much of one, thus, what ever is inside, you cant be disappointed.
