It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

          As I was waiting outside the Barbican Theatre for my Other Half to turn up, a group of women spilled out of a car. One of them said, loudly, “I can’t believe it. I never get spots!” She said it again, perhaps to evoke a smidgeon of sympathy or to convince her incredulous audience. After giving it some thought, one of her companions enquired as to whether she had recently changed her diet. “No,” she replied, “but I’ve stopped smoking weed.” Intrigued by this apparent non-sequitur, I tried to remember if, when I laid off the weed forty-odd years ago, I too had broken out in spots. If I had, they were not sufficiently pustulent for me to have associated them consciously with weed withdrawal.

          Actually, the O.H. and I had no intention of going to the theatre – the promise of an “adult panto”    notwithstanding. We were going to the bar, to eat and have a drink before moving on elsewhere. The last time we’d looked in, it seemed like a welcome oasis of indie heaven that promised Thai food and live music in casually cool surroundings. This time, however, the place was heaving with festive theatre-goers, including the woman with the spots (I tried not to stare) and her mates. Is anywhere immune from Christmas madness? Certainly not the pub I had been to earlier for a quiet, solitary pint. Even as I supped, staff were setting things up for an influx that evening of a party of 35 policemen on their annual ‘do’. The run-up to Christmas has its own special energy, fuelled, it seems, by excited anticipation and frantic, deadline-beating activity. From late November on, I’ve noticed that any enquiry made to a service-provider has been parried with a ‘not-before-Christmas’ disclaimer, as if to say, “We’d prefer to have your business in January, actually.” Even those of us only marginally involved get drawn into the whirlwind unless we take steps – sometimes literally – to avoid the whole palaver.

          But even I, standing as I do at the “Bah! Humbug!” end of the Christmas-enthusiasm spectrum, will admit to a degree of heightened anticipation as the great day approaches. The symptoms have been recognisable for a week, coinciding with the onset of a cold snap that signals a certain change in the seasons and a reminder that the true origin of this time of feasting and celebration lies in the pagan tradition. Bring on the feasting and celebration, by all means (and I don’t mind if it happens more than once a year), but ease off on the commercialisation and eliminate entirely the Christian mythology and I will be on board. As things stand, the best part for me is the unusual pall of quiet inactivity that pervades the 25^th and 26^th days of December. The feeling that you’re not obliged to do anything except have a good time is so alien to the prevailing ‘protestant work ethic’ as to be worth celebrating in itself. It also reveals the true sense of the original word ‘holiday’, re-setting one’s perspective on the rest of life’s activities.

         We won’t be having the traditional meal on Christmas day. We’ll have something really tasty instead. And it certainly won’t be Thai cuisine, since I’ve tried it three times now and found it so disagreeable that I’ve applied the ‘three strikes and you’re out’ rule so as not to waste any more money on it. It seems that, no matter which item I choose from the menu, the overwhelming taste is of sugar and the predominant texture is sticky. Each time I leave the table, I have an urge to rinse my palate with beer. In fact, I reckon that if I were to eat Thai food for more than one consecutive meal, I too should break out in spots.