A Typical Christmas

Yes, I know, it's that time of year when that word, Christmas is looming and we're starting to panic. I'm not sure about your country, but here in Britain as soon as Bonfire Night is over (5th November), the Christmas advertising really gets going and the shops are laden with sparkles and temptations - although, it sneaks in before that around the peripheral of October.

Figments: viewBook.at/B005METJGK I wrote a story about this - here it is from my collection called, Figments, called, A Typical Christmas: A Typical Christmas The mighty build-up to the festive season seems to start earlier each year. By October, evidence of this creeps onto store shelves like a caterpillar that has changed into a butterfly, the colourful array of paraphernalia takes place of what now appears a dismal alternative; homemakers have to begin the ritual of ‘putting by’ a little something, perhaps a small feeling of panic setting in. Whether it is true about Christmas being more enjoyable when we were young is difficult to prove, but different it most certainly was. The childhood excitement and expectation were hard to contain but the simple belief in magic was absolute. Walking through town, seeing the resplendent mosaic shop windows seducing us to part with money, Christmas illuminations above our heads, begrimed with car fumes; I must admit to a certain soft spot for it all. At last the shopping done, the turkey trussed, the cake made with its aromatic fragrance of cinnamon, nutmeg and other exotic spices filling the home to its rafters, together with the pungent odour of citrus mixing with the sweet smell of mincemeat from the freshly baked pies makes your mouth water as you walk into the enticing warm kitchen. The pervasive scent of spruce captures your imagination, transporting you at once to the Black Forest; this invasion of smells enough to put your senses in a whirl. Decorating the Christmas tree is a custom most observe, bringing out the ancient baubles to hand alongside the new and those misshapen valuables created by younger hands; the finished creation a masterpiece before your eyes. While the iridescent trinkets of gold, crimson and sapphire, combined with the scintillating spectrum of colour from the boa-like tinsel and the blaze of rainbow globes cascading triumphantly like a waterfall, encompass their host with pride. Just before the magical day, there has to be the visit to Father Christmas. Small, warm hands grasp your own as you encourage the infant to advance through the meandering embellished passage to see the great man himself. There he sits in all his scarlet glory, his ruddy complexion surrounded by his cotton wool-like whiskers, his joviality endearing him to you. After a successful visit, your delighted child clutches the prize tightly, anticipating the wonder within. Christmas has arrived, the peal of church bells in the distance reminding you of the carol singers the night before. After opening the gaily covered parcels, the wrapping is strewn across the floor in a mad riot of colour. Eventually, sitting down to the meal, the turkey browned to perfection, the steam curling towards you, the tempting aroma alone bursting those gastric juices to flow as a river into the mighty ocean. Cutting into the succulent creamy-white flesh, it becomes almost urgent to begin. But first the helpings of crisp yet fluffy roast potatoes and long-nosed parsnips, flanking a creamy mound of mash, and the sprouts, like a dish of emeralds, the stuffing speckled with newly-picked herbs and to add that touch of vibrancy, orange baby carrots, barely cooked to retain the crunchy texture; all this incredible abundance topped with rich brown, silken gravy. After piling your plate as high as Mount Everest, you glance through the window at the carpet of glistening white and the snowman, built with a lopsided, friendly smile, made with cold hands and warm hearts and note the frost covered trees, which look like giant glittering hands. And you think how lucky you are to be snug and safe and loved with your family around you. When it’s all gone, that gluttonous feast, all retire to an afternoon of television – the repeats, the antique movie and the corny jokes. None of it matters except the tradition of it all; including the contented ebb and flow of Granddad on the deep, if worn, easy chair. The children rake through their loot, hoping the more adventurous of us will play a game; Monopoly being the most favoured of them all. Following this brave attempt, tea is served – if another morsel can be fitted in; sumptuous fruit cake, steeped in brandy, each bite taken in sin and sensuality; the ever present British cup of tea, piping hot by your side. Regretfully, it all comes to an end. Disrobing the tree and discarding it with sadness; thinking it must feel like a king abdicating the throne, another waiting for its coronation a year from now, the pine essence desperately asking for remission. The commencing of diets and January sales and trudging through the sullied snow, seeing the tattered remnants of Christmas through shop windows, thinking; we really must try to do something different next year. *** Does this feel familiar? *** Whatever you celebrate, enjoy your festivities. Keep reading and expand your mind and bring in the light.