December Woes

Here you are then December, the Christmas month of madness, planning and anxiety, of rash expectations.
Who will give that rogue present and send you into a guilt laden strop?
Have you ordered enough food for everyone? What if someone has turned veggie and not told you? Well, just in case, you should order in a small field of vegetables that’s what vegetarians eat isn’t it? Carrots, sprouts and onions, and nuts, better get a double packet of KP salted peanuts too.
You write cards from last year’s list on the basis that they always send you one. Can you honestly remember how they looked? How do they look now? How long is it since you last spoke, or saw each other? Why did the friendship that was once so vital and so alive simply wither away?
Why did you stop seeing them or speaking to them, who phoned last, is it your turn? No! You realise that it has always been you that has pursued the friendship, sent the cards, made the calls, visited, it was never them. You decide not to send the card this year. You feel guilty.
You look at the assortment of cards, Christmas penguins and polar bears and try to remember the parable in the Christmas story that they refer to, you can’t so you deem yourself a heathen and justify sending these cards as they are for charity.
You browse the Internet for the latest elusive gifts and find the over priced plastic abomination (that you would ignore in normal circumstances and will be ignored by boxing day) and pay twice its worth on E-bay, only to be pipped at the post by some other equally delusional parent.
You spend the month being nice to people you cannot stand because it is Christmas; you even send them cards ‘with love.’
Every one around you is belting out their favourite Christmas song, but you get really irate when the car that has driven to close to the pavement and sent a tsunami of cold brown rainwater running down your face, is pumping out a rap version of White Christmas.
Your child no longer believes in Santa Claus and subsequently you have lost all control over them.
Your partner is looking forward to the Office Christmas lunch and is planning a port and brandy challenge on his boss to see who can out drink each other. You search for the Christmas puke bowl and towel.
You look in the windows of Next and Marks and Spenser’s and immediately covet their golden chargers, glasses of lights and a centrepiece that will ensure that the only bells ringing on Christmas day will be the smoke alarm.
Your entire conversations consist of ‘This year has gone so fast’ and ‘I can’t believe it is nearly next year already.’
You dread the day works stops because of the horde of dirty drunken people determined to kiss you when all you really want to do is deck the bastards, with or without holly.
You have relied on the Christmas bonus to fund Christmas, only the boss is playing god again and has decided to plant a tree in your name this year. You stifle the urge to shout ‘stick the tree up your arse’ and smile real Eco friendly like.

Christmas eve, the postman delivers that card from 'you know who', the new neighbour’s 4 year old brings you a gift of wine and 'something for the kids', and you raid the Christmas tree hoping with unreasonable expectation that it will be something apt for a 4 year old. You hold the hastily ripped off gift card behind your back as you hand over a packet of Ann Sommers chocolate willies, something you do not realise until you return to work. Your youngest son tells you he wants an I pod instead of the plastic thingy that broke your smart new credit card. Your husband tells you that his brother and his wife (that you don’t get along with and is only a vegetarian when you are not prepared) and their three children will be coming for dinner too. Your son announces that he is not coming to midnight mass at 9pm because it is not traditional, instead will be at Campus getting rat arsed, which is also your preferred option, but you cannot because your brother in law is a priest and for the last 21 years you have always celebrated mass with him, and to break tradition now would be to invite the seven sisters of the apocalypse.

The day itself passes in a blur of paper, screams, laughter, tears, indigestion and mince pies. The night is dominated by lusty performances on Singstar and you are more than surprised that your mother sings the Britney Spears classic Hit me Baby one more time. You realise that if you do not get your 80 year old mother off the coffee table she will indeed be hit, probably by everyone. Especially your husband who had just got over the legitimacy of watching said original video and now has a gyrating mother in law superimposed on his memory.
Eventually taxis come people collapse and thanks ‘for the best Christmas ever’ echo though your once serene and tranquil home.

Once December is over you reminisce about how good it was to hook-up with family.
What wonderful gifts you received, and will wear once you have shed 3 stone.
You pack away the spare crackers and smelly gift sets. The Christmas tree is once again wrestled into the failing cardboard box and hoisted into the cavity above your heads, but not before bouncing off the light fitting and plunging the house into fused darkness. Christmas is over…..for now.