Bah Humbug!

Christmas is approaching once again with alarming velocity…perhaps sadly I’ve reached that ‘certain age’ when time starts to fly past, but it truly seems only a few days ago I was preparing for the excesses of the festive season, or perhaps I just haven’t sobered up yet?

The tree has been purchased and decorated by the family (all of which I later removed when said family had adjourned to bed, to redecorate it more, shall we say evenly. But that’s our little secret, shhhhh…). Unfortunately, it’s already started to give up the will to live; developing a bad case of erectile dysfunction even Viagra couldn’t cure and dropping needles all over the floor. These are later duly located by my bare feet, painful yet somewhat amusing to watch for other family members. Is the gift they wish to give me for Christmas Tourrettes? It would appear so…  

The presents have been selected, wrapped, placed lovingly under the tree and squeezed and shaken to within an inch of their lives by their respective recipients. Many already look as though they have been savaged by the dog, which in truth, they probably have.

I frequently wonder to myself, at what age does Christmas lose its magic? The exciting thrill of the first snow of the year has been replaced by a fervent plea that I don’t slip and need a hip replacement. The joy of shopping for loved ones is now a huge military operation, with much syncronising of watches and covert sidestepping of thoughtless folk with double prams ramming my shins. It’s certainly not helped by the almost certain knowledge that at least one smart arse will buy me either a huge pair of surgical looking knickers or a pair of support tights as an amusing Christmas Day anecdote.

And then to the day itself; a dawn raid from the children excited about their gifts, leaping on the bed, putting small but exceptionally powerful feet into my partners festive baubles - exhausting the possibility of any early morning ‘gifts’ I may have hoped to receive. (Although, to be fair, the thought of spending a great deal of the day with my hands up a turkeys nether regions slightly dampens the mood for me anyhow.)

Suffice to say, for many reasons the seasonal cheer (aka booze) rears its ugly head quite early. In an attempt to quell the pain of yet another Christmas perched on a rickety chair in my Sunday best whilst various loosely related family members spread themselves over my lovely comfortable sofa, waiting for me to provide a never ending smorgasbord of goodies to thrill their taste buds. It wouldn’t be so bad, but all they thought to bring was a bottle of Lambrini and a box of Ferrero Rocher; what did they think they were attending? The bloody Ambassador’s ball?

What’s needed this year is a complete antidote to the customary Christmas Day mix. Will this be the year I assert my authority and just share the festive day with my very nearest and dearest? Allowing me the opportunity to lie incumbent on my very own sofa after a ridiculously large lunch, belching... I may even really push the boat out and enjoy wearing an old holey tracksuit, or pajama’s with unpleasant Brussels sprout stains on the front, whilst mindlessly enjoying yet another Only Fools and Horses re-run.  But no, sadly not, as we’re almost certainly due a family invite to share lunch in a remote relatives home, eating party food from Iceland and being thrashed at Trivial Pursuit by an aged auntie. Note to self, must make sure I pop out and buy some Lambrini and Ferrero Rocher. Well I wouldn’t want to arrive empty handed now would I?

Christmas? Bah humbug!