In the unlikely event that anyone ever put me in charge of anything, I’d introduce a rule about Christmas decorations for shops and any public buildings. I’d ban them until December 1st. Maybe even December 7th.
Once I had a taste for autocracy, I’d introduce a similar rule in relation to Christmas Muzak. I’d have this noise re-classified as a dangerous substance – like cigarettes or dynamite – opening the possibility for employees to sue whatever place of business they work in on the basis of damage to their mental health, perhaps even PTSD.
This might not make sense from a legal perspective. But this is a scenario where I’m in charge and you do what I say. I wouldn’t prevent private households from putting up decorations before December, but I would heavily disapprove of such people. I’d glare at their homes as my entourage swept by. I might even ask who lives in there.
My reign of terror wouldn’t be as terrifying as you might think: because my intention would be to re-introduce a bit of joy. Less Christmas is better Christmas.
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It’s like when you have posh cheese and wine, when they complement each other perfectly. The first mouthful and the first sip electrify your tastebuds. But after that first glass and three more gobfulls of cheese and fancy crackers, it’s not quite the same. And it becomes less and less so as you chase that dragon: until you’ve had so much of it you have to be helped to bed. For weeks afterwards, the thought of it makes you retch.
As we currently practice it, that’s the Christmas season. We are constantly pummeled with the idea that it’s a quiet, relaxed time. Friends call around for delicious pre-frozen nibbles. Everyone is wearing scarves while they stroll around the shops. Choirs sing in the background.
But our actual experience of it is screaming, frenetic and relentless. The lights, the trees, the food buying, the who-visits-who politics, the expense, the Elf on the Shelf, the present lists. And there’s not even momentary relief. You can’t turn on the radio or TV, you can’t go online, you can’t even look out your window without being barraged by CHRISTMAS, CHRISTMAS, CHRISTMAS. By the time the day itself arrives, there can often be a calming, relieving sensation. Because at least it’s over now.
My yearly fantasy is to somehow avoid all this, to experience November, perhaps even a bit of December like they are perfectly normal days. Then, about a fortnight before the 25th, click into Christmas mode. I’d enjoy it more that way. Less Christmas would make it precious again: what we tell ourselves it’s supposed to be.
I’ve never managed it. Short of spending November in Afghanistan, there is no way of physically avoiding the pre-Christmas tumult. I’ve tried keeping my eyes locked on the pavement and talking to as few people as possible, but even then, someone will eventually say: are you all set?
Yet despite all the moaning I do, I’ve never experienced Christmas in another country. I’ve thought about it, even done the occasional google. The practicalities of life have never made it possible.
But this year, we are going to do just that. Sort of. After Christmas we’re going to spend New Year’s Eve with the French branch of the family. Preparation for trips abroad is my job, so that’s been a nice distraction. Better yet is the fact that I have no idea what it will be like. I deliberately haven’t asked Daughter Number One what to expect because, for a change, there’s the wonderful possibility of being surprised.
There might be music on streets and fireworks. There might be nothing. It might be the same as here, with driving rain and drunk people. But I suspect not. All I can be certain of is that it will be France, and the wine and cheese will be fabulous. Joyeux Noël.
