Have yourself a militant little Christmas

Given all the eating and drinking, it probably won’t surprise you to hear that I LOVE Christmas. I love it so much I’ve been known to buy decorations in June (I do have a strict rule that festivities can not begin until December, but I was on holiday and there was a Christmas shop – I couldn’t help it).

Everyone has their own idea of what Christmas must contain or ‘it’s just not Christmas’ and my passion is such that I have a slight tendency towards the Christmas Commandant (note the reference a ‘strict rule’ above. There are more.) I have very clear ideas on what is and is not Christmassy.

Colours, for instance. Red, green, silver and gold (and white – especially of the snowy variety) – yes. Blue, pink and pastels of any description – NO. And as for matchy-matchy blue or pink (or purple) Christmas trees - HELL NO. This year we accidentally bought coloured lights for our tree (clear lights look much nicer, I’m sure you’ll agree. If not I have ways of making you agree…) While I could make my peace with the red and green ones, they are, after all, permissible Christmas colours, the blue ones had to go. And by go, I mean get duct taped up, one by one, until their non-Christmassy glow was obliterated. What? It’s perfectly normal. *ahem*

NO

But it’s not just about the colours and the gluttony, it’s also about the presents. Not just the receiving (I like diamonds and ponies, in case you were wondering…) I am a big big fan of the giving. I get very excited about giving people presents, especially when I think it’s something they’ll really like. There’s a reason this is my favourite Christmas ad ever:

All together now: ahhhhhhhh… Now that we’re feeling all warm and fuzzy, let’s turn our thoughts back to food (you didn’t think I was going to leave it at one brief mention of gluttony, did you?) This is perhaps the area in which most people (myself included) get the most militant. For some it’s mince pies, for others it’s trifle. I’m not bothered about either (‘what?!’ I hear your inner radical Christmas elf gasp ‘no mince pies?!’) But my Christmas must (MUST!) include my Nana’s stuffing. It is, without doubt, the best stuffing recipe in the world (it contains potatoes) and I defy you to say any different.

Christmas traditions are many and varied it’s always entertaining to see the clash of customs when families come together. As the youngest in the family, I got to look on as my older sibling’s partners were introduced to our family Christmas. Their varied reactions to my mother’s annual Christmas wobbler were always fun to watch (the pressure of catering and general emotional high doe of the season tended to culminate in an episode of some sort, usually involving one or all of; a sudden outburst, a tea-towel flung dramatically to the floor, a slammed door, tears). I particularly remember the looks of horror when new boyfriends or girlfriends were told we didn’t open our presents until everyone was fully dressed and had been to mass (mass - and yet my father never appreciates our singing ‘Happy Birthday dear Jesus, Happy Birthday tooo yooouuuuu…’ It’s disrespectful apparently). The belated presents tradition was nothing but cruel if you ask me, and I was in full support of the mutiny led by my eldest sister’s husband the year we stormed the living room in our pyjamas and let rip under the tree.

This year we’ll be taking it one further and opening our presents on Christmas Eve, because that’s how they do it here in Sweden. Yes, we get to share a whole new set of Swedish traditions with our friends which essentially means TWO Christmases. Excited does not even begin to describe it.

See? Lovely Christmassy colours. Much better.

I do, I do, I do, I do, I do, I do

I've talked before of the wedding circus mafia and the arseholery that goes on, but there is also a very bright side to the nonsense. Being a guest. Sadly the wedding 'party' themselves often get too wrapped up in the photocalls, speech nerves and potential family feuds to actually remember to enjoy the day, but as a guest; no public speaking, no months (or years) of organising, no weeping wallet, just the bubbles and the dancing.

There is a little preparation involved, granted, but it never fails to amuse me how quickly the wedding visage crumbles. The hours, and sometimes days, we spend making sure we look as good as we possibly can (for some that's just about presentable, but all I can do is work with the ginger raw materials I was given) only for it all to be destroyed in a matter of hours.

We find ourselves on the dance floor in our bare feet, the shoes so carefully matched to the dress abandoned under a table, with a tie around our head and our dignity whimpering beneath an avalanche of Michael Jackson/Mick Jagger/Pigeon inspired dance 'moves'. Oh yes - we've got the moves like Jagger. The makeup, hair dos and manicures are long forgotten as we swing our sweaty mane in time with the 80s power ballads.

In addition to revisiting my rock star (*ahem*) youth, I tend to unearth a worrying passion for interpretive dance after a few dry sherries. My Kate Bush impressions are 'inspiring', so I've been told (look out for me on got to dance next year; I'll be the one who inspires the phrase 'would her family not tell her...?')

There is a delightfully unhinged quality that is unique to a wedding dance floor. Maybe it’s because it’s such a happy occasion, or that some of the guests don’t get out much, or perhaps it’s the unique mix of ‘performers’; where else do you get to share the floor with an 80 and an eight year old?

On a more serious note, I must issue a word of warning to wedding bands/DJs. If you will play Tiffany and Footloose back-to-back, be prepared with a crash cart/ambulance on standby. Some of us are not as young as we used to be, but we can’t seem to stop ourselves.

From this...

..to this...

...to Kiss.

Small People V Sleep

 'When are you getting a baby?' my 6 year old niece asked recently. (I suspect she may be in training to be a nosey b@$t@rd…) But she's a little young to hear about the horrors of pregnancy, childbirth and child rearing, so I used a trusty 'I don’t know' in response. If it was as easy as getting a baby, from the shop, like you would a pint of milk or a nice new handbag, I might consider it, but I know too much. FAR too much. Thank you friends, family and far-too-intimate TV for sharing.

Don’t get me wrong. It's not that I don’t like small and miniature people, they can be great fun altogether when you know you can hand them back to their sleep-deprived parents at the end of the afternoon and skip off to the pub.

Therein lies the rub. I like children, but I like some other things more. These things include, but are not exclusive to, sleep, the occasional 5 minutes of quiet and TV that does not feature Barbie and/or Barney and/or 'bonkers' presenters (you know them - the 'I'm mad me!' types). And there are other things I do not need to experience directly to know I would not like one little bit. These things include, but are not exclusive to, cracked nipples, tearing (down there!) and projectile vomiting.   

'But it's all worth it!' they tell me, at the end of another story about getting covered in poo, with a smile that doesn't extend to their hollow, exhausted eyes. I'm not really sure if it's me they're trying to convince or themselves.

I know I risk sounding like a self-centred cow, but rest assured it's not purely selfish reasons that keep me from boarding the broody express; I am also thinking of the children. ('Will no-one think of the children?!' I cry…) Sleep deprivation and copious amounts of hormones would not a loving, nurturing ginger make.

Me + hormones - sleep = THIS.

 A womb, an egg and a few good swimmers may be all it takes to make a baby*, but it takes a hell of a lot more to make a mother (as the girls on 16 and pregnant so ably demonstrate).

*According to some of the nuns at my old school simply sitting on a boys lap is enough to get you 'in the family way'. Unless, of course, you place a telephone directory on said boy's lap first; if, for instance, you have to sit on his lap for a play or suchlike. Sound contraceptive advice from the Catholic Church there. And there are more pearls of wisdom where that came from... Ladies please take note - this is important - you should exercise extreme caution when wearing patent shoes with a skirt. Boys can and will see your knickers in the shine. You have been warned.

Sage advice AND stylish head wear. Is there no end to their talents?

Curiosity may kill this Cat

Some people never tire of prying into your private life. I refer to them as 'nosy b@stards'. Not a blindingly original title, but fit-for-purpose. Don't get me wrong. I am fairly liberal with relatively intimate details with those close to me (sometimes a little too liberal after a refreshing beverage or two) but this particular brand of individual generally has no business making your business their business, if you get my drift. The Aunt you see once a year and don’t particularly like; that individual at work with too much time on their hands (who often inspires the question 'what do they actually do…?’); the friend of a friend, of a friend, of a friend whose name you've forgotten. Them.

When you're single they're obsessed with you 'meeting someone special', and specialise in patronising pseudo-excited grins and reassurances you neither need nor want. I think we should start issuing medals / small trophies to honour unattached comrades who refrain from punching these types in the tit (stereotyping, I know, but this behaviour does tend towards the female of the species). No, violence is not the answer, but 'Feck off you interfering old <insert expletive of choice>' is a possibility. Best to nip them in the bud because I have bad news for you single people; It does not stop when you meet someone you're willing to share the remote, deserts and your naked self with. They are never satisfied.

They simply move on, scarcely pausing to draw breath, to 'when are you getting engaged…?' (I was going out with my now husband three months when the questions started. Three months!) And if you do decide to enter the circus-world of insanity that is The Wedding, you open yourself up to some of the dullest conversations known to man. Flautists, flowers and favours my arse. These snoopy types are, of course, in their element. And will expect an invite. (Stand firm! Do not give in!) Then, before you've even cut the ridiculously overpriced cake*, the next line of questioning begins.

'Any news…?' They ask expectantly, dancing around the subject with all the subtlety of a baby elephant, staring at your belly, trying to decide if it's full of baby or biscuits.

It's biscuits, I assure you. Now feck off.

*Ridiculously overpriced, unless you have a talented mother like mine, who made our cake and my dress. 

She rocks.