The Christmas Dinner
Picture the scene if you will. You’re seated in the garden with twenty other people, at a long table, on splendid wooden decking and the temperature is around 29C (85F). The guests either side of you don’t speak a word of English, they don’t understand your Spanglish very well and show not the slightest interest in what you’re saying. You take another slurp of your Cabernet Sauvignon, hoping the anaesthesia will kick in, try to strike up yet another conversation with your neighbour, only to find that they completely ignore you, turn away and begin chatting with someone else. At that point, you’re hoping for a sudden interruption– an earthquake, a tornado or even a spiritual manifestation would suffice, rising over the table invoking all those present to speak in tongues.
Even the dessert spoon on the table looks welcoming enough to dig that hole for your great escape. But of course, nothing of the kind takes place and you resign yourself to three more hours of purgatory, which doesn’t even include the gift ceremony, yet you’re still hoping for a diversion, maybe even a bun and cream cake fight? Alternatively, you could tap on your wine glass, ask for everyone’s attention and announce that you are in fact a woman struggling inside a man’s body. But no, that’s been done before and isn’t even dramatic anymore, is it?
The Countdown
Doesn’t it always seem like five minutes since the last time the family was thrown together and those thirty days soon turn into single digits, as you barge your way through wave after wave of Christmas shoppers, trying your best to drum up an inkling of enthusiasm? I’m not religious in any way, shape or form, so the obligatory exercises are usually just another shopping expedition best left until the last minute. Naturally, the countdown includes enquiries about Christmas dinner, which in my case is always on Christmas Eve. But since I have no voting rights on who the away team will consist of, I’m forced to accept the inevitable with prickly resignation and cold shudders down my spine. This is why, after the fat lady has done her singing, I like to murmur ‘It’s all over, bar the shouting.’ And, oddly enough, Jesus is never mentioned once. Not once, and I’d always thought it was his night, after all.
The Gift Ceremony
As if the night isn’t long enough already (barring tempests or the hand of God ), the gift presentation doesn’t commence until midnight, sending another wave of ennui over me, alleviated somewhat by the second bottle of Cabernet, but still a daunting prospect, nonetheless. Opening presents in front of a mass of people I barely know isn’t one of my fortes, especially when it’s the sixteenth pair of socks, or that aftershave you always avoided because it made you smell like a gigolo and you try your best to smile and summon up from the depths some mild gratitude. Similar to the Oscars ceremony, this can go on for about ninety minutes and, short of feigning a life-threatening medical condition, there really is no escape. So you watch as the pile of gifts mercifully decreases in size, take another slurp of your favourite tipple, then check your watch to find that it’s already one-thirty in the morning.
Head For The Hills!
For many reasons, Christmas has never been my favourite time of year, not least the in-fighting that goes on as to where you’re going to go and who’s going to be there. But there are escapes available, of which I’ve availed myself on numerous occasions. One year we made some tuna sandwiches, a flask of coffee, jumped in the car and spent Christmas Day in the Welsh Mountains, watching sheep nibble grass by a cascading winter river with the rain lashing down on the steamed-up windscreen. It was heaven actually and nearly beaten by another year when we spent on an old wooden boat at anchor in a bay in West Wales. On both occasions, we gave each other a gift when we returned home, quietly and without ceremony, maybe accompanied by a glass of our favourite tipple.
These are just two examples of the perfect solution to the Christmas dilemma– you choose the company, the location, the time and ward off those guilty feelings of being selfish. But then, I have to ask, what is more selfish? To corral a group of people into a synthetic happy gathering, who barely see each other from one year to the next (and possibly hate each other), or to opt-out and enjoy the most overrated day of the year doing something relatively normal? There’s nothing selfish about being pro-choice, but this year, as with the last many, many years, that particular avenue is not available. I am, however, planning a counter-attack for next year which may include mountains, deep rivers or even an expansive ocean view. Or possibly go out and give food to those who really need it, regardless of the season. Who’s with me in the rebellion?
Answers please, in the spaces provided below, once you’ve recovered from the excesses of the 25th.
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Since the passing of Father,Mother, Brothers,Sisters Christmas just isn’t the same. I do have my children and grandchildren, but I sometimes wonder if I even exist, when it comes to them. To me Christmas it just another painful episode of privately remembering, what used to be. Merry Christmas everyone.
I hope I didn’t drag up painful memories, Daniel, but yes, we all have our own view on the hype and ritual.
I am OK!! Actually visits with my Son and Daughter went very well this year.
I hear you Marc. The best thing about Xmas is when you can finally can utter those magic words…”Well that’s it for another year.” The only thing is then you are on a planned countdown to New Year’s Eve and everyone wants you to be part of the plan.
My plan is to win the 30 million dollar Australian Lottery tonight and then I’ll deign to skype/facetime in to the Xmas dinner from some exotic location every year making sure they can see the sparkling blue Mediterranean waters from a yacht moored off Santorini, a snowy-sloped backdrop from Switzerland or Cherry blossom trees with Mt Fuji in the background – or wherever takes my fancy.
Now that’s a plan!
I’ll join the rebellion Marc.
I am with you by not being involved in any religion and Xmas is a more suitable word for that time of the year.
I fail to understand why so-called intelligent people don’t have an inkling related to the history of a person giving well-behaved children a small gift once a year, at an date unknown, then mixing it with a mystery story of unknown origin relating to a female producing a child by natural means in a totally unclean, unhealthy environment.
As for the Xmas madness of increasing credit card debt on presents, mostly a ‘want’, hardly a ‘need’ plus excesses of food as though Western people had been malnourished for 364 days.
As an ex-pat Brit I would prefer to be sitting in a car with my wife, on a countryside hill in Lancashire or joining you not far away in Wales, the Cab Sav and a 10 year old bottle of Laphroaigh beside us.
Another choice would be a meal in the Penhros Arms in Llanfairpwllgwyngyll, a warm, welcoming place across the road from the railway station.
Don’t know that pub, Jon, but I’ll make a point of visiting on my next trip to the UK.
The Welsh mountains I referred to, by the way, are at Elan Valley near Rhayader.
I can only imagine there must be cultural differences at play here, Marc. Why would there be a “family” gathering for Christmas dinner and all these people seemed like strangers to you?? For me it was 27 people around a long table this year and we all had a merry time. And I’m naturally a loner, but this was still enjoyable to me.
Nail on the head there, Tony.
It’s a huge cultural difference which very often gets me into hot water.
We were eight initially, until I learned that the hostess had invited a further eight distant relatives, with whom none of us had anything whatsoever in common, so the end of the night could come quick enough.
‘couldn’t’