Is it possible to be allergic to Christmas?
For the last two successive years I have been hors de combat for the actual day. My pathetic attempts to eat the truly delicious meal which passed me by two years ago remain as wounds in my culinary memory which are still painful to revisit. Last year I had to lapse into blissful unconsciousness in my small bedroom while the whole of the rest of the family ate in the dining room.
Today, the first day in Christmas Week, I felt distinctly unwell. I dragged myself from bed to have a shower and then seriously considered returning to bed to continue the great tradition of festive failure that has characterised my approach to one of the jolliest days in the calendar.
Even with the best will in the world I still think that I would be on shaky ground if I tried to intimate to anyone who knows me that my malaise was in some way linked to a well thought out physical expression to a moral objection to the progressive commercialization of Christmas.
I am a man who made it part of his personal credo never to find himself living more than three miles from a branch of Marks and Spencer. I am also a person who can be deflected from serious purpose in a moment by a well dressed shop window for things that I would never consider buying. It therefore follows that it would be disingenuous to pretend that ‘buying things’ has ever been something inimical to my way of life.
Perhaps it is a rejection of the ‘vulgarization’ of a Christian festival. As Christianity is a bit of a Johnny come lately to claiming the ancient Yuletide and pagan date as its own, it might be said that the festival is returning to its more sybaritic roots. My Christmas tree with five sets of lights, heavy with baubles and topped with a filial (which denies composed description) is hardly understatement. My Belen (the stable scene with 15cm figures) has a cast of thousands and six wise men. It also has a (15cm) figure of the caganer next to the stable whose appearance and function I will leave in the decorous Spanish of our version of the Wikipedia, “Un caganer es una figura de una persona defecando que se suele colocar en los belenes.” So hardly without a certain degree of vulgarity there!
It is a mystery.
There are however a few precious days in which my constitution could be encouraged to sort itself out so that I will be able to participate in the solid and liquid pleasures that the day usually holds. I live in hope!
Although the days continue cold we have been treated to a staggering parade of casually spectacular sunsets.
Living in a town or city, too often buildings impede the constantly changing display but looking out to the open sea one is staggered sometimes by the path of liquid gold shimmering across the swells leading to a cloud diffused light show of sunshine which bleeds from the central fire of yellow into a whole palette of glowing colour.
And just when you are thinking that this amazing show is Nature’s gift, free, gratis and for nothing – you remember the rent on the balcony on which you are standing and then think about the laughable horror of wilting pound sterling visibly shrinking from the haughty and contemptuous sneer of the muscular euro.
I always knew, instinctively, that you should spend money as soon as you get it; that saving was full of bad calories and that owning three ipods shows what a heroic determination I have always shown to be a good solider fighting on the front line for reflation and the saving of the world economy.
Where is my medal please!
For the last two successive years I have been hors de combat for the actual day. My pathetic attempts to eat the truly delicious meal which passed me by two years ago remain as wounds in my culinary memory which are still painful to revisit. Last year I had to lapse into blissful unconsciousness in my small bedroom while the whole of the rest of the family ate in the dining room.
Today, the first day in Christmas Week, I felt distinctly unwell. I dragged myself from bed to have a shower and then seriously considered returning to bed to continue the great tradition of festive failure that has characterised my approach to one of the jolliest days in the calendar.
Even with the best will in the world I still think that I would be on shaky ground if I tried to intimate to anyone who knows me that my malaise was in some way linked to a well thought out physical expression to a moral objection to the progressive commercialization of Christmas.
I am a man who made it part of his personal credo never to find himself living more than three miles from a branch of Marks and Spencer. I am also a person who can be deflected from serious purpose in a moment by a well dressed shop window for things that I would never consider buying. It therefore follows that it would be disingenuous to pretend that ‘buying things’ has ever been something inimical to my way of life.
Perhaps it is a rejection of the ‘vulgarization’ of a Christian festival. As Christianity is a bit of a Johnny come lately to claiming the ancient Yuletide and pagan date as its own, it might be said that the festival is returning to its more sybaritic roots. My Christmas tree with five sets of lights, heavy with baubles and topped with a filial (which denies composed description) is hardly understatement. My Belen (the stable scene with 15cm figures) has a cast of thousands and six wise men. It also has a (15cm) figure of the caganer next to the stable whose appearance and function I will leave in the decorous Spanish of our version of the Wikipedia, “Un caganer es una figura de una persona defecando que se suele colocar en los belenes.” So hardly without a certain degree of vulgarity there!
It is a mystery.
There are however a few precious days in which my constitution could be encouraged to sort itself out so that I will be able to participate in the solid and liquid pleasures that the day usually holds. I live in hope!
Although the days continue cold we have been treated to a staggering parade of casually spectacular sunsets.
Living in a town or city, too often buildings impede the constantly changing display but looking out to the open sea one is staggered sometimes by the path of liquid gold shimmering across the swells leading to a cloud diffused light show of sunshine which bleeds from the central fire of yellow into a whole palette of glowing colour.And just when you are thinking that this amazing show is Nature’s gift, free, gratis and for nothing – you remember the rent on the balcony on which you are standing and then think about the laughable horror of wilting pound sterling visibly shrinking from the haughty and contemptuous sneer of the muscular euro.
I always knew, instinctively, that you should spend money as soon as you get it; that saving was full of bad calories and that owning three ipods shows what a heroic determination I have always shown to be a good solider fighting on the front line for reflation and the saving of the world economy.
Where is my medal please!
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