It’s almost Christmas. Blimey. Seven days from now, Santa Claus will already have squeezed himself down the chimneys of the world and will be zooming his way back to the North Pole, tired, drunk, and stuffed to bursting point with cookies.
Coincidentally, that’s how I’ll be spending Christmas Day, too.
Of course, when you’re an adult, Christmas is never like it was when you were a kid. I still remember that build up – the growing excitement as more and more doors were opened on the advent calendar; the bizarre mix of hysteria and boredom of Christmas Eve, as you tried to find something – anything – to pass the time until you went to bed.
When you’re an adult, that magical build up to Christmas Day is replaced by a lurking sense of dread. Rather than making decorations, singing carols and playing board games on the last day of school, the weeks before Christmas are instead spent rushing round crowded shops, worrying about how eight people are going to sit at a table made for four, and karate-chopping anyone who tries to fight you for the last turkey in the supermarket.
All that said, I love it really. Having a young child helps immensely, as you get to make Santa lists, open advent calendars, and watch every Christmas movie known to man. If watching Santa Claus: The Movie three times a day for a week doesn’t get you into the holiday spirit, nothing will …
This post was supposed to be about an entirely different subject, but somehow it turned into one about Christmas. I’m not quite sure how that happened, but there you go. I’ll write the other one later.
Oh, and we’re back in Scotland now. It took a 12 hour drive through the night, with rain, sleet and snow driving us back, but we arrived at around 5am on Saturday morning, at which point I promptly fell asleep.
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Written by Barry
Topics: Personal