And so it does. Every year, about the same time, and we are never ready. Why is that? I know folk who prepare from June, not that I could possibly do that whilst clad in cool frocks and with bare feet and not thinking cold nor Christmas for one single second. I would have been tutting around the garden hysterics, arguing with recalcitrant weeds #indigenouswildthingswhathavebeenhereforcenturies, plus thinking of a freshly made salad and a chilled glass of something French. But amidst the sunshine days there are those who are already storing things up in their understair cupboards for this time of year, laughing, no doubt, at those of us in enough of a panic to possibly require restraints.
So, I am wrapping and lighting candles. Growling, also, at the so-called warm white lights on a string that promise to stretch for half a mile. Although they do, indeed, stretch said distance, the warm white lights are more the colour of a face approaching a vomit attack and I am not pleased. However, the thought of ripping them down for the bin men to remove bothers me because I am a woman of substance and there is a load of plastic in this purchase. I hear of whales with half a Tesco’s inside their poor struggling bellies. They die. Obviously. And I want no part of that, if possible. Not that I am smug, because I do throw plastic, but in the face of no-idea-what-to-do-about-it I can only do my best; tie knots in bags so they don’t blow crazy across our world, caught in the endless winds like kites, only to drop in all the wrong places, just as an innocent baleen maw opens wide for krill and, instead, swallows kill.
However, back to Christmas comething. I have no tree this year, thank goodness, as himself would never navigate its span safely. Well, he would be safe, but the tree would list and collapse after one circuit of the chair and I so cannot be bothered with that. It would be like an insult and we don’t need to have that sort of thinking nowadays. So, I have strung baubles that date back to the 70s across the window and twinklywinkly lights everywhere that is safe from wheelchair hazard. Mostly the lights are telling me the truth. They are warm white and look fablious. There is just the one that irks green.
On Friday one family arrive. On Monday two more. The family who live here and who have just birthed a third girl, whom, in the absence of a name, I have called Threepio, will return when they return. Christmas promises to be burgeoning with grandchildren and four of my kids. I am cooking nothing bar the bread sauce, the cranberry sauce and the Christmas pud. Actually, I haven’t cooked it. I bought it, and now I have to somehow sink grease paper wrapped 20 pennies into the belly of it, because my kids are so traditional. An empty Christmas pud might as well not arrive at all.
But the family will, arrive, gales and ferry permitting. And I am thankful. It might be chaos, it might be noisy but it will be so real. I wish all of you a wonderful Christmas and want to thank you for reading my nonsense and for always being there.
You mean so much.