I used to think putting on Christmas for the family would be a delightful endeavour. The run up, I imagined, would be a charming string of smug afternoons spent cooking in advance, and red-cheeked excursions to gather boughs of holly.
Those fantasies, of course, were forged when I had no responsibility over Christmas whatsoever, bar turning up and being nice to my nan. This year, I’m hosting it myself – my parents arrive this weekend – and the exercise is revealing itself to be less a dream, and more of a nightmare.
The first problem is that December, far from being the perfect month for “winding down,” is the busiest time of the year. It’s a sickening flurry of pre-holiday deadlines, joyless networking events disguised as parties, and novelty winter activities – ice skating, carol concerts – that seemed fun when you booked them in November but, once festive fatigue has kicked in (around the time you finish your second mince pie of the season) feel like just a chore.
That snowy expanse of blank calendar space during which you’d imagined you’d get everything done? Doesn’t exist. To have any chance of adequately preparing to host Christmas, you need to get started in late spring.
No one told me this. Thanks to the lack of forewarning, I’ve been buying crackers, mincemeat and the thousand other apparently vital festive accoutrements distractedly and at the last minute, the gap ever widening between my stylish fantasy Christmas and the haphazard one I’m presiding over in real life.
Then there are the uniquely difficult demands of the day itself. Christmas dinner is not just a slightly-better-than-average roast, but a fiendish feast consisting of an eye-watering number of components. You’re also tortured by the expectation that everybody should be having fun; this is, after all, the most wonderful time of year!
My parents didn’t adequately brief me about the horror that lay ahead. But, thinking back to my childhood, they hardly spent the entirety of December exuding saintly composure. There were stifled mutterings about expense, items forgotten in the supermarket and unreasonable filial demands. (“Lady Muck’s not content with normal mince pies – she’s asking for star-topped ones!”) Naively, I always imagined that I wouldn’t fall prey to such petty grievances if I were hosting myself. It turns out the opposite is true.
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There’s one silver lining, though. I have a hunch that familial harmony will be at an all time high for the Smiths this year. The strain of planning festivities has sparked a Scrooge-like transformation in me – now I finally appreciate how hard they slogged in Christmases past, I’ll hopefully drop the sulky teenager act I compulsively adopt in their company.
Alas, my gratefulness doesn’t extend to repeating my generosity. Please take the responsibility back next year, mum and dad. I’ll never quibble about your mince pies again.
