'Ts the season...

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.

Childhood

This Afternoon, I have been thinking about childhood. The best time of our lives we are told. The time of our lives where we can do what we want, live freely without boundaries, without being oppressed by our views which have been molded to our social norms that we have as adults. Freedom to get muddy, play in ditches and have the innocence to believe that the condoms on the playing field are nothing more then the shredded skin from a reptile. The only time in our life where we can build anywhere, without plans and permissions, without the threat of health and safety closing our dens down. Time to be inspired, by films, peers and books, to eat worms to see if they really are slimy yet satisfying. Freedom. That is what it is to be a child.

However. Things are not as it all seems. Childhood is not at all about freedom. Its 18 years of punishment and imprisonment, sentenced at birth all because we have been born.

When I think back to being a child, I do not remember the times of utter bliss. If I were to describe it in one word, I would summaries it as 'fear'. Fear. Maybe I was just a child who seemed to worry a lot, but I often felt scared. Danger seems to come from all sides when your a child. From when you close your eyes, there always seems to be a nightmare about to appear. I haven't had a nightmare since I came of age, so to speak, but I remember as a child, having some of the most scary dreams, dreams where I would wake up and be unable to make an audible scream. Then, during the day, the fear of being lost or left behind is so great. Standing on the cold floor of a supermarket, looking out at the packets of crisps, mesmerized by the purple pickled onion Monster Munch bags. When you have absorbed all there is to take in, you find that your mother has wondered off. Panic. I know that almost every person who reads this will remember this happening to them. The fear that grips you. You see now that I am not mad with these assumptions of childhood experiences.

There then comes a point where its time to go to school. Schools are horrible places. Locked up, unable to do anything without permission. Freewill has gone. This is why the kids piss on the floor. Waiting for the teacher to finnish their conversations with the assistant, coffee from the brown glass mugs, waiting, patiently, with their hands held high. 'can I go to the toilet please Mrs Smith?' (for all teacher have to have a long drawn out formality with their names - we do away with that at secondary school), If your lucky, they will see your desperation and let you go, otherwise they will question you as to why you did not use those fine facilities at break time. Shame creeps over you, urine creeps down your leg. She looks at you, in disgust. As if she has never seen this before. Out comes the cloth, and the bin bag of spare clothing. Every kid in the class will have worn the misshapen garment which you are now presented with. Finally, at the end of the day, the ordeal just about over, your mother has to come in to collect the steaming bag of clothes, which you had tried to forget earlier.

School discipline is has always been strange. Built purely on the ground to give as much humiliation to the child as possible, without actually breaking any laws. Some at my primary school was getting the child to stand up on a chair for the rest of the lesson, so everyone could watch the poor girl weep. Another was to stand outside the staff room door. Since the school cat was rehoused in my early years at school, the frustrated staff had nothing to kick, but like little stress balls, the children outside the staff room were little vessels to take the abuse staff would pour into them. How blissful is childhood!

Outside of school, there were holidays. If you could run a lightbulb of each child's pent up disappointment, we could light up London. The first term ends and Christmas holidays come around. The fictional Santa Clause that would stock up all year just so he could deposit something under your tree or on the living room carpet. We were good boys and girls, however quite how goodness was rated I was not to sure, for the naughty kid at school always seemed to get the best toys. I always thought that it was very clever how Santa was able to provide toys that were representative of the parents income. One Christmas which stands out in my memory was wanting an electric car. They were all the rage. I came downstairs, after a sleepless night and there was a tractor, wrapped in christmas paper. After the long wait for the parents, and the parents parents, to come down stairs, washed, shaved and flossed, present opening could commence. And there, my hearts desire had provided a ride on tractor, with grand plastic blow molded wheels, a red body and ... pedals. Yes pedals. And of course, with the freedom of childhood I was only able to use it on the grass in the garden. We've all ridden on grass on bikes, and its not easy. Now imagine doing it with fat wheels. The friction was too much for my little legs to take.

Now, Santa Clause is covered. What about the other fabulous little creatures which our double standard parents have created. The Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy. Oh what fantastic creations. I was told never to lie, 'we don't have lies in this house, nor will I tell you a lie. You must be truthful and honest' my mother would say. Now, double standards. This was a way for my parents to find out everything. They lied to me, they lied to each other, they probably lied to the tax man (I jest of course). So we've established that most of the things we believe in are fictional creations. We find out in adolescence that much of this is not true. I wonder then what else we find out when we get older. What illusions we are currently under. The Tooth Fairy also seemed to discriminate. I remember getting 50p per tooth when the twins at school boasted about the £5 they would get. The Easter Bunny - well, he was not all that important in my life. I knew it was my dad providing the Cadbury eggs.

Summer holidays was the big one. 6 weeks of complete and utter... boredom. I will save you the drone of 6 weeks of non stop waiting around on the sofa with brief interludes of going to the park and den building, water fights and the laborious clean up afterwards - which we were, of course, told to do.

So yes, the freedom of childhood. I really do hope that reincarnation does not occur. I've been a child once. Id rather not do it again.