Open Writing

Ever since high school I’d intended to travel overseas, but with completing my degree, paying back my student loan and getting my career on track, life always seemed to get in the way.

On my thirtieth birthday, I decided if I didn’t take the plunge and go, I’d probably never do so. I had money in the bank, so I resolved just as soon as I could make the necessary arrangements, I’d embark on a belated ‘big OE’. A week later, I met Mike and I was smitten. After six weeks, it was obvious we’d spend the rest of our lives together. Next to this gorgeously sexy, generous man, a working holiday paled into insignificance.

As Mike is English and his parents are not well enough to make the long journey to New Zealand, last year he suggested we spend Christmas with them in Andover, just outside London. I was ecstatic. A trip overseas - and Mike. Who says you can’t have your cake and eat it?

We arrived two weeks before Christmas. What a revelation that was. I was used to a winter where temperatures were cooler, but still mild, the sky most often being blue, the trees green where daylight doesn't fade completely, until nearly 6 o’clock. Here, the sky stayed gray day after day, the trees were reduced to brown lifeless sticks and it was dark by three in the afternoon.

And, it was cold. A damp, bone chilling cold, that made you feel you’d never be warm again. The frost hung in icicles from the trees and covered the ground like a white blanket. Most days were never warm enough for it to thaw, so the next morning there would be a double dose of frost and the ground froze. It was as if the earth had gone into a deep depression.

Day after day, I sat huddled beside Mike’s parents' big open fire, until it was time to climb the stairs of that big old house to my drafty room with its bare wooden floor. The tiny heater I’d been given made no difference at all and my teeth chattered as I bravely changed into my pyjamas. I’d lie there beneath the cold sheets thinking of Mike in the next room, longing to snuggle up to the warmth of his big masculine body. Mike had explained to me that his parents were ‘old school’ and wouldn’t approve of us sharing a bed. As it was their home I had no option but to put up with the situation. His mother was very caring and did her best to make me feel at home, but it seemed no matter how many blankets I put on the bed I was still cold.

I lay there at night thinking of my family and friends in New Zealand enjoying long carefree days in the sun. I gave no thought to the fact they’d actually be coping with the stress of going to work, while at the same time trying to complete their Christmas shopping and solving family arguments about who’d go to whose place for Christmas dinner. In my mind they were enjoying all the joy summer brings; swimming, picnicking, barbecues and pool parties.

Nevertheless, I was determined to remain stoic, as I could see how much Mike was enjoying being with his family and meeting up with old friends. Then the terrible thought struck me: what if he didn’t want to leave? What if he decided he’d rather stay here in the land where he’d been born? The thought of leaving him was out of the question. I’d be forced to stay here in this cold, inhospitable land, until I finally froze to death. I cried silently into my pillow.

Mike was attuned to my misgivings about his homeland. “Feeling a bit homesick are we?” he asked one morning as I put another shovel of coal on the fire. “How would you like to go into London this evening to have a look at the Regent Street illuminations?”

I wasn’t sure just what the Regent Street illuminations were, but the thought of at last being alone with Mike was enough for me to jump at the idea.

We took the train into London where we boarded the underground to Piccadilly Circus. The gaudy flashing billboards of Piccadilly Circus had me agog. “Is this it?” I asked, as I marvelled at a large neon Santa Claus toasting the Christmas season with a can of Coca Cola.

“You haven’t seen anything yet, kid,” Mike answered with a phony American accent.

As he directed me down Regent Street I felt as though I was being enveloped in a kaleidoscope of colour. Strung across the street, reindeer and angels glistened and sparkled as though they were made of precious jewels. From every lamp post, verandah and window there were glowing boughs of holy and mistletoe. A giant Santa Claus sang, “Ho, Ho, Ho” as he winked at the crowds from his sleigh on the canopy above a shop.

On another was a gigantic Christmas tree bedecked with a myriad of scarlet, silver and gold baubles that glistened like stars. Shop windows were decorated with montages of scenes of the nativity and stories of past Christmases. Groups of carol singers sang in shop doorways. Further down the road the Salvation Army reminded us of the reason for this great celebration. While all around the hustle and bustle of those busy with last minute shopping exuded an atmosphere of camaraderie and good cheer.

Just when I thought my senses were about to go into overdrive, big white flakes of snow came swirling down to cover the gray street in a soft white carpet. Mike held my hand and whispered, “Merry Christmas, darling.” I knew then, I didn’t want to be anywhere else on earth, as this was going to be the best Christmas of my life.