Christmas

Guess what? I loathe Christmas. It comes round quicker every year. I hate the messy cards I have to display that the kids pull out of their school bags. I hate the queues in the shops when all I want is a loaf of bread and a packet of mini rolls. I hate the loving family adverts on the television and radio that you cant escape. Christmas songs make my bowels rumble with stress and anxiety and Christmas films make me involuntarily shudder. Bah humbug doesn't even cover it. You would think now I have umpteen children I would gain some pleasure from the festive season. I don't. In fact it has escalated the phobia. Now I have the added feeling of deep heavy guilt to add to the mix. I never have the foresight to save any money earlier in the year to buy them presents they are actually worthy of and want. Due to my ineptitude they have grown up thinking Father Christmas and his elves are working in partnership with Poundland. I am lucky that this year my youngest is only one year old and so has no concept of stockings and what he should expect waiting beneath the tree on Christmas morning. (He has a second-hand high chair to look forward to in case you're wondering). He has acquired a taste for waste paper recently and although this habit results in terrible constipation he can have a festive fill up on the big day and munch as much cheap wrapping paper as he likes to make up for the pauper, Dickensian gift. 

I cant cook. I tried to reserve a table at a restaurant so the kids didn't have to suffer the dried, chewy turkey I usually dish up. Of course I have left it too late. The waitress at the Harvester in town informed me gleefully as her sides shook with laughter and tears streamed down her face that there were no tables free on Christmas day. So I shall be in the kitchen boiling up vegetables and carving meat that everyone will thanklessly moan about having to eat. I hate Christmas Eve. I hate having to fill up the stockings on my own and having nobody to share being Father Christmas. I hate going to bed and not being able to sleep because of the intense dread I feel looming thinking about the following day.

Yesterday in the early evening my doorbell rang. I went to open the door. Before me stood three teenagers complete with dirty tracksuits and trainers with a muddy football tucked under on of their arms. 'Can I help?' I asked as they were staring at me blankly. 'Yeah', said the biggest boy. 'We are carol singers, innit?' I looked them up and down waiting to be surprised by angelic voices rising out of their gangly bodies and for them to  bestow Christmas cheer. They didn't start singing. I shrugged and started to close the door when the biggest boy must have decided to abort the pocket money mission and shouted at me, 'Oh, fuck you then, ugly bitch' and swaggered off down the road with his grubby posse in tow. It brought a yuletide tear to my eye. God bless you too Tiny Tim, you little shit.

I reluctantly made a window display this year. It is comprised of a rather furtive looking light up Santa whom I have dangled from the top window handle. I have  sprayed snow spray at the bottom of the window to really set the wintery scene. The children loved it. I thought it was rather good too until I tried to rub a bit of errant fake snow from the side and discovered it had set like cement. When I look at my window display now I am constantly reminded of the job that awaits. Instead of Father Christmas popping round I need Barry Scott

I hate Christmas.

So, I have come to a decision. Next year I am going abroad. Christmas 2016 will be spent with the children digging holes in the sand whilst I relax with a festive mocktail. No more Thuggy Tiny Tims at my door and no more worrying about having to cook. I simply cannot wait. Bring on next year.