the Christmas itch

I thought of the kitchen appliances as I awoke – the neat row of fridge, freezer, sink with a cupboard underneath and washing machine, all shut tight and wiped down. I saw them closed, then grim and then smiling

– and I began to laugh.  And then I thought of the Christmas trees at home and the ones I made for my son.   And I imagined another tree which I dressed with people I have met, or loved over time, legion kindnesses., with warmth and humour and generosity of spirit – which I had to imagine of course – how to package and how to hang on a tree.

This is a benign form of the Christmas itch,

the sort of countdown which builds from acquiring the comforts of a pleasant day off with those you love to  “how much can we sell you, for how much, before you notice you don’t need any of it ?”  Like Buns calling from Mayo – you could never call Buns Scrooge   But he’s not keen on the Christmas hype so he rang and asked “Have you bought your Christmas china?”  What ?   “Have you ever heard anything like it ?” he asked.  “You use it for two days’ max and then where do you put it ?  Have we not all got enough stuff ?”

Stuff is the stuff of the consumer Christmas, totally unnecessary bits and pieces and trinkets  – some of it seductively pretty, but frighteningly expensive. Six carefully chosen items will stun the wallet.  And as Denning said yesterday over the phone “It’s not December yet !”   Hence the Christmas itch.

Looking forward is part of the human DNA and for years Christmas was contingent with family happily reunited (even if you had to get over your father’s wind or a disagreeable neighbour), time off,

the rewards of food and wine and warmth, maybe for Christmas week, otherwise for two or three days at the most. Boxing Day sales were fun, you went out of the house to look as much as to buy..  You dressed the house with evergreen, you bought holly to go on top of the pudding and mistletoe to go in the hall so that everybody who arrived, was kissed.  

The itch now starts in late August through September.  (I thought it was bedbugs or allergy – but no – though as pernicious as the one and as hard to diagnose as the other.)   I confess I tire of Christmas movies, I’m very weak in the “aaah !” department, and the price hitch which gets worse and worse as the season builds among the harsh glitter..  I love carols, but not offered as a musical cue to “what can we sell you ?”   And the machinery is terribly effective because none of us want to be the pooper at the party

or to be left out.   So you have to choose how much you scratch.,

I love Christmas cards – to send and to get – but I don’t think they are long for this world given the price of postage, the state of Royal Mail, and roulette of delivery.  But this year, yes – on more time.  I have a red box with the lists and the cards including spares.  And – bearing in mind it’s always personal – sending them is an act of affectionate remembering. 

My Christmas list is shorter than it has ever been. It’s not that I don’t love you but because the things you really need – warmth and food you can afford, health and some kind of hopeful continuity– can’t be giftwrapped.   And I am damned if a toy in a fake fur coat, even labelled “from  Love Island” will “say” it or do it. 

On my happily imagined itchproof Christmas tree, hanging in a crystal ball, is the gift of communication, how to say what you really mean.  Too may people take refuge in formula like “Y’know what I mean… ” Supposing they don’t ?   Yesterday a really handsome young woman made room for me to pass and I thanked her as I did.  Then I turned back and asked please, where was she from ?  She told me The United Arab Emirates.   I said “Then you come from a culture of courtesy and I am its happy beneficiary.  Thank you.”   No itch.