Open Writing

This year, Christmas took me totally by surprise. It shouldn’t have, of course – it happens regularly every twenty-fifth of December. But – well – I was busy. And I didn’t really want to get into the shopping frenzy, to have to think of what to buy everyone, of what we were going to do on The Day, who we’d do it with, what to cook and what to bake – and should we do decorations? “Bah, humbug,” I thought, getting grumpier by the minute, “and a Scroogey Christmas to all!” So I ignored the glitz and the carol-singing, hoping it would go away. It didn’t. Suddenly, there was less than a week to go until that dreaded day, and I had done absolutely nothing about it.

My brother announced that he and his wife were carrying my mother off to Christmas lunch with his in-laws. My son asked if we’d take him to the airport to catch a flight to New York on Saturday – he’d be gone until my birthday in mid January. My Uncle and Aunt declared they’d been invited to a family function by my cousins. We had been invited to celebrate Christmas – nowhere.

My darling daughter came to the rescue: “Why don’t the three of us go to that lovely restaurant at Zoo Lake?” she suggested. We booked a table for three for Christmas lunch: it was very expensive. Anything was better than having to prepare it myself.

In a last-minute frenzy, I went to our nearest shopping centre, brain teeming with gift ideas. Elbowing my way through crowds of shoppers all looking as panicked as I felt, I bounced from shop to shop, searching desperately for the bookmarks which I’d decided were essential as gifts. Not one good-quality bookmark was to be found. The bookshop had some made of cardboard with their logo on them; the stationers hadn’t heard of such objects; the exclusive men’s gift shop regretted that they “don’t stock those.” It is a very long shopping centre; I raced through it, legs and feet aching.

Giving up on the bookmarks, I decided on some good-quality nougat, which I could pop in the trolley when I made my last stop at the supermarket. I still needed to buy a gift for my daughter; the item I’d decided on could only be found at the opposite end of the centre, in a shop I’d passed at least twice. I turned once more and surged through the crowds.

Then I realised that everything I purchased needed to be gift-wrapped. I returned to the card shop, where I’d already spent an hour. It took another thirty minutes trying – oh, panic, they were all stuck together – to separate individual sheets of gold and red tissue from the wodges they were hung in, then selecting glitzy gift-bags.

Breathing became more difficult as I remembered that three of my close friends had invited us to celebrate their birthdays in the days before and just after Christmas. “Don’t panic,” I told myself, “my lovely flute student creates beautiful glass plates – I’ll ask her to bring a selection to her lesson later, buy some for the birthday girls. I’d better go back to the card shop again for more gift-wrap and bags…”

Much later, as I walked up and down the aisles of the supermarket, I experienced a ‘power-surge’ of note and continuously had to mop the perspiration which poured down my face. There was the nougat – three packs of that would do nicely; I picked up some last-minutes supplies to see us through the coming holidays. “This,” I told myself, “is why I spend hours on the treadmill and strengthening my arms at the gym during the year: to prepare for the mad rush of Christmas shopping!” My legs ached, my arms felt like falling off as parcels dangled from my hands.

It was a relief to load the bags into the boot of the car. Then: “Oh, bother!” I said, but in much stronger language, “I didn’t get the chocolate bars Mum asked me to buy for her.” This realisation led to a rush up the stairs from the parking garage, back into the endless throng of shoppers, and down the aisles of the supermarket. I found a cashier, offered her a miserable, “Merry Christmas,” in a reedy, exhausted voice along with my payment, and finally made my way home.

Next morning, panic struck again. We were to have Sunday lunch with the family. This was our last chance to give them their presents before Christmas; presents which still needed to be wrapped. The morning melted away in the heat as I tried to eat a light breakfast while cutting red and gold paper to size, fought to place sellotape in the best strategic positions to hold the wrapping closed, chose and filled gift-bags to suit people and their gifts, and wrote loving messages into the cards. We were only ten minutes late for lunch.

To my amazement, in spite of everything Christmas arrived – as it always does. After all my panicking, we celebrated the Season with love and joy – as we always do. The pleasure lasted nearly a week.

Maybe next year, I’ll do my Christmas shopping in February, wrap the gifts during March and April, decide on the details of our celebrations in August, prepare and freeze as much food as possible in advance, and – not panic!

Ultimately, it’s love that counts; not only at Christmas, but always – love for our family and friends, and enjoying the time we spend together.

So, until next time, ‘Merry Christmas - here comes Treble!’

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Isabel Bradley