I’ve forgotten how to do Christmas. Not literally. I still have lots of Christmas things to do. More to-do lists than Santa, in fact.
There’s so much admin. Present planning, buying, wrapping, delivering and posting.
Food orders, making, baking, serving, and freezing. Then there’s all the do’s. The bashes, the blow-outs and the booze.
Which means multiple manicures, blow-dries, outfits made of sequins, and fishing yesterday’s tights out the washing basket and spritzing them with perfume.
And I neglected Christmas cards. I’ve already received four handmade ones.
So, I need to buy card and glue and glitter, and time. Where do I purchase more time?
This is no longer the season to be jolly, but the season to be harried, exhausted, and panic wrapping a scented candle on a packed Jubilee train, for the uni friend you only see once a year. I’m Christmaxed out.
And I don’t have kids. Those with kids look like death walkers.
Their life force drained by magicking nativity costumes from whatever is in the recycling box, and icing snowman cupcakes at 3am. I know. I’ve seen the desperate social media posts.
Survivors of the apocalypse, wrapped in tinsel, making their offerings to good parenthood in exchange for likes and reassurance they’re not alone.
Does anyone feel like they’re coping? My overriding feeling is not one of comfort and joy but of anxiety.
What if I’ve forgotten the tree? What if I burn the turkey? What if Christmas is cancelled?
Actually, that last one doesn’t sound that bad. The Christmas chaos has finally won – I’ve become Scrooge.
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