Christmas? Put a sock in it
With scarcely a break in the time-space continuum, I'm faced with Christmas again before recovering from the last. The trouble is, Christmas is no longer confined to Christmas. As soon as summer holidays are over and exhausted mothers return their children to school in the hope of a little peace on earth, Christmas is up and running. By October, festive fare starts to appear in the supermarkets, and the aisles are so clogged with frozen poultry and deluxe chocolate gift sets, it's impossible to manoeuvre the trolley properly. I begin singing Let It Snow with monotony, and titter at the sight of legions of checkout girls wearing little Santa hats.
By the beginning of December, the pressure is intolerable. I feel compelled to start making a list of New Year's resolutions and renew my determination to: 1) keep actual writing implement by the phone instead of taking messages with crayon shards, lipstick or pudding dribbled across an old envelope, 2) discontinue practice of lining children up nightly to find out who spat toothpaste on the bathroom mirror and then wrote 'Santa woz 'ere' through the gob, and 3) desist from lying next to snoring husband and calculating how many sock would fit in his mouth and whether, at the trial, I could claim self-defence ...
The children have been into Christmas since October as well, and now that the school nativity season is well and truly open, the tension at home is almost unbearable. An earnest discussion with Daughter No3 about reindeer biotechnology and breeding is always a challenge at the breakfast table. As is trying to persuade Daughter No2 that, come Christmas Eve an overweight, alcohol-challenged gentleman dressed in a red suit and shouting 'Ho! Ho! Ho!' is going to break into our home and leave gifts under the tree. Daughter No1 smirks knowingly at the end of the table.
I've spent weeks trying to fashion an angel costume out of an old bed sheet, but I fear the effect will be more Jabba the Hutt in drag. Still, better than last year's concert, when the husband asked in decibels that were probably audible in a neighbouring country why his child had a tea-towel on her head during her outstanding performance as a shepherd. Tragically, I had no sock rolls to hand ...