Another Christmas is over. This year’s Christmas lasted longer. Almost four hours longer than the last year’s, by my reckoning. When you are not enjoying things, time seems to pass very slowly. I was invited by friends and I accepted the invitation for the same reason I accept most of the invitations I don’t want to accept: a pathological fear of saying no, which is matched by the excruciating paranoia that others would see through my excuses if I cooked them up and would view me with contempt and hostility. Even though I tell myself it matters not a jot what others think of me, I know that it does.
So, there I was, sitting in the living room of my friends which resembled a gynaecologist’s waiting room. Watching in horror and then despair the couple’s five-year-old hurtle himself with apparent unconcern for his own safety at various objects in the room. Of the various ways in which the boy attempted grievous bodily harm, his most favourite activity was running from one end of the room at a speed faster than that of the late England fast bowler Bob Willis and throw himself on the sofa, not caring which body part he landed on. I was concerned that the boy might break his neck. My concern was not for the child's safety, I should clarify (though, of course, I wished the child no harm). I was concerned that I would end up spending hours in the local A & E with the distraught parents, if the boy did manage to injure himself.
After a decent interval following Christmas meal (turkey gone dry (I hate turkey), brussels sprout with chestnuts (I hate brussels sprouts), boiled carrots (tasteless; I hate them), and roasted parsnips (I don’t like parsnips)) I took my leave, reproaching myself for accepting the invitation (the recurring story every year: asking myself why I am going, as I make my way to the friend’s place, and asking, again, after manufacturing my escape, why I went).
Surely, there must be a less painful, at any rate, tedious, way of spending your Christmas. Granted, there are those who are less lucky than I am and spend the Christmas day with relatives whom they despise (who, they know, despise them), exchanging dreadful gifts and banal anecdotes of inconsequential life events.
And then I came across this article on the BBC website—people spending Christmas Day ‘with a difference’ across England.
https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-50823553
It is not easy to describe the emotions I experienced as I read the article: incredulity (it can’t be true; my eyes are deceiving myself), followed by horror (my eyes are not deceiving me), followed by dismay (what is happening to my country), followed despair (it is happening to my country), followed by relief (it did not happen to me), followed by gnawing anxiety (would I be able to refuse if invited to some or more of the events described in the article?). The closest one can come to this panoply of emotions is perhaps when one miraculously survives an RTA in which one’s brand-new car is a write-off.
Apparently, all over England, on the Christmas Day, hundreds of people gather to take a dip in the sea. Those who subject themselves to this justify it by saying that it is a ‘bit of fun’; that it gives you some time away from the stress of cooking Christmas dinner. If you are stressed by cooking a Christmas dinner, drink more wine (or any other alcoholic beverage of your choice); or feign a headache and lie down in the bedroom. I do not see the point in taking a dip in ice-cold sea water in the middle of winter. It is insane. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to do it unless they are masochistic or driven to desperation. If they are feeling that desperate or driven to self-harm can they not watch the queen’s Christmas address?
Then there are those who gather the homeless and the lonely, and feed them. Why would you do that? There are food banks and Salvation Army soup kitchens where these individuals can go, can’t they, if they want something to eat and can’t afford? Why would you want to do it on the Christmas Day, or, for that matter, on any day? I suspect it is just a ruse for some people to feel smug and superior. Puffed-up moralists who wear their virtues, to paraphrase an observation from a Julian Barnes novel, as a tart wears her make-up.
Some people go for park-runs on the Christmas Day. What’s the point in that? I mean, what is the point in running, on any day of the year? Running is OK if you are (like the son of my friend) a six-year-old with hyperactivity issues. Or if you are a twenty-year old man who has robbed a petrol-pump. Or you are caught short and the nearest lavatory is two-hundred yards away. Or you are late for train. Or a big bottom in tight Lycra is jogging in front of you in Hyde Park. But, to go for a collective run at five o’clock in the morning, in winter, with healthy-living-freaks (who no doubt munch on organic tofu) is self-inflicting pain. Running is bad for your knees—why would you want to damage your knees and increase the burden on the already over-stretched NHS?
Finally, there are those who give birth on the Christmas Day and expect a medal from the world for this chance occurrence. What is the big deal in having your baby born on the Christmas Day? You got your bun in the oven a few months earlier; maybe there were pregnancy complications; and your baby happens to be born on the day the Western World deludes itself into believing is the birthday of JC (not Jeremy Corbyn). Does not make you a f**king Mary (who was reportedly un-f**ked).
The best way to spend the Christmas Day is to treat it like any other bank holiday. Do not meet relatives if you can help it. Do not accept invitations from your friends (especially if they have young children). Don’t go for swimming in the sea or a parkrun. Don’t feed the lonely (these people, in my experience, are lonely for a reason). Spend the time with your immediate family (difficult to avoid that) and comfort yourself with he knowledge that the ordeal will not go on for ever. Then relax with a novel.
