Christmas
The first Christmas I remember mattering, was when I lived in Morocco aged six to eight years old. I woke up to a stocking with a punnet of raspberries nestling at the top. The excitement about what they were going to taste like, how they would melt in my mouth and remind me of instantly delicious and familiar English puddings, evaporated because they were mulberries, not raspberries, and tasted strangely rubbery and bland. They looked nice though, and I understood that my mother had tried to make my sister and I feel connected to the old traditions, even though she didn’t have much time for them herself. The next radical change came when I was eleven. Our unit of three, used to intimate Christmas’ with one or two presents, was swallowed up into another family of three daughters and a father. They had a system which involved breakfast first, then all sitting around a vast pile of presents which were handed out one at a time while everyone watched each opening. It seemed exciting at first, until it was apparent that certain people got more presents than others. This was never commented upon, especially as my little sister had the least, then me. The day was full of festivities including charades, chores, food, stories. It was awful because it was completely false. As I morphed into an unhappy teenager, filled with scathing contempt for this empty show, I came to despise Christmas. When I left home aged 16, I sometimes spent Christmas entirely alone. It was a relief but very isolating. Christmas had a new angle when I had my own little Sprog to bewitch with the ceremony. I tried the odd Christmas joining up with
other relations, thinking he would enjoy a big bustling family. But we soon ended up with a ritual that persists to this day: Jimmy wakes late with a bulging stocking at the end of his bed. I take photos of him opening the contents. I make him some tea and toast and leave him to his phone life. James, my now ex-husband who lives in the same building, cooks Christmas lunch with no help from us. We traipse upstairs
and devour it gratefully. There are jokes and poetic references. I clear up the kitchen and later James comes downstairs and we open our presents. It is bliss.
other relations, thinking he would enjoy a big bustling family. But we soon ended up with a ritual that persists to this day: Jimmy wakes late with a bulging stocking at the end of his bed. I take photos of him opening the contents. I make him some tea and toast and leave him to his phone life. James, my now ex-husband who lives in the same building, cooks Christmas lunch with no help from us. We traipse upstairs
and devour it gratefully. There are jokes and poetic references. I clear up the kitchen and later James comes downstairs and we open our presents. It is bliss.