I’ve changed my mind about Christmas many times. I loved it as a child, but we fell out sometime in my late teens, although the trust is slowly re-growing in recent years. Now I enter into the festive spirit with the best of them, but like any good pantomime its always necessary to have a few boo’s and hisses among the laughter and the cheers.
So these days I find myself opening an alternative advent calendar, and finding things like this inside -
behind the 5th
the work’s Christmas party - fours hours spent fighting off his brandy breath / her glittery dress
behind the 7th
the battles with Sellotape - the finger nail cruising for the end of the tape - the tacky curses at the last to use it - the polish fingerprint lifted from the edge of the dining table and transferred to the parcel - and the hair, always the hair, caught beneath, coming your way, from here to there
behind the 10th
the mother talks of frozen meats - of creatures carefully sliced and interleaved with paper this time last year - the pink, the white and the darkened brown - intended sandwiches and Sunday suppers rediscovered twelve months on and given a bin burial just in time for the next ones to come along