Saturday, November 17. That was the auspicious day on which I encountered my very first Christmas Carol for the year. I had made a dash for the local supermarket and was engaged in the eternal struggle that is ‘white versus multi-grain’ when I heard the mordant tones of ‘Joy to the World’ wafting through the aisles like a giant dose of audio flatulence. Christmas may well come but once a year, but apparently no such restriction applies to Christmas Carols.
Saturday, November 17. That was the auspicious day on which I encountered my very first Christmas Carol for the year. I had made a dash for the local supermarket and was engaged in the eternal struggle that is ‘white versus multi-grain’ when I heard the mordant tones of ‘Joy to the World’ wafting through the aisles like a giant dose of audio flatulence. Christmas may well come but once a year, but apparently no such restriction applies to Christmas Carols.
Don’t get me wrong; I love Christmas. I especially love Christmas at Christmas time, rather than midway through November. It wasn’t always this way. There were years in my early twenties when I regarded the entire Yuletide experience as an inconvenience and an unwelcome disruption to work. On the day itself, I was very disorganized. If I’m being honest, the gifts I purchased for family members were only a notch or two above a lump of coal. It is enough to say that my sisters received a lifetime’s supply of potpourri during this period. Scented candles, vouchers and – on one particularly desperate occasion – a chicken torpedo from the 7-Eleven; I was guilty of all this and more. A friend of mine quite rightly told me I was a ‘Grinch’. That was probably the kindest description for what I was. In truth, when it came to Christmas, I was a turkey.
Once there was a period during which I took the TAC advertisements very much to heart and quit driving. Getting to Tyabb on Christmas Day was an ordeal of such blistering magnitude that it makes ‘The Amazing Race’ look like a quick trip to the shops in comparison. The funny thing about catching public transport on Christmas Day is that you know all your fellow passengers are in the exact same position. Everyone is expected somewhere. We all had people waiting for us. In an odd way, knowing this gave the entire trip a slightly melancholy feeling. Or maybe I just knew I was bringing poor gifts.
Christmas changed for our family when one of my sisters had a baby. Seeing the enthusiasm that Brodie had for the whole spectacle fundamentally changed my view. It made me think back to my own childhood, when Christmas morning was all about a series of early excursions down the hallway to conduct reconnaissance as to what lay underneath the tree. As there were five of us, it was a duty that we shared, eagerly reporting back to our siblings. It was quite magical. As various nephews and nieces continued to materialize, this began a period best described as the ‘over-compensating’ years. Whereas once I treated preparations for the big day with all the enthusiasm of a dental appointment, I then went as far as possible in the opposite direction. Forget 17 November. My preparations started in around August. I planned for Christmas day with all the care of military incursion. I would develop themes for each year and place the gifts in matching boxes. The results were stunning. When lined up, the gifts looked like the Chinese Army on parade.
But the family kept on getting bigger. Whereas once we had all easily fit around the family table, there are now rows of trestle and card tables. It’s one step short of stadium seating. There are children everywhere. To see them stare in open wonder at the tree and the gifts that lie like fruit beneath it is to be reminded of what it is to be young. In fact, the numbers are so great that we now run a Kris Kringle system. Come August, it means that instead of preparing for Christmas, I now twiddle my thumbs.
Perhaps that explains my reaction to hearing ‘Joy to the World’ at the supermarket. I’m just not ready. To hear Christmas Carols at this time doesn’t feel like a celebration so much as it does an attempt to convince me. The song may well speak of joy and delight, but what it’s really saying is, ‘Pull yourself together! It’s time to start shopping for Christmas.’ Whilst some people might reject such blatant Pavlovian conditioning like a bad tenant, I am unable to resist.
These days, I no longer celebrate Christmas once but on at least four occasions in as many locations. Maybe the supermarket is right and I really ought to start in November so that the whole thing feels less hectic. For that reason, I have stocked up on crackers, mince pies, candy canes and shortbread. In a case of what I fear is going way, way too early, I’ve also bought a bucket load of prawns. I’m not sure how good they’ll be by 25 December though. I realize that there is such a thing as ‘green prawns’, but I doubt that they’re meant to be quite so luminously green or, for that matter, furry. In the end, perhaps it matters little. As I sit here, paper hat on my head and cracker at the ready, it occurs to me that family is all that really matters on such a day. And no one, not even a supermarket, can convince me otherwise.