Christmas Traditions

Every family has their Christmas Traditions.  It might be leaving out mince pies and sherry/brandy/beer/wine/milk/baileys for Santa, or singing carols at the Crib Service/Candlelight Service/Midnight Mass/ Eucharist/ on the Quay/ in a pub, or eating your body weight in mince pies/chocolate/turkey/ham/roast potatoes/cheese/Christmas cake, or playing monopoly/pictionary/cards/articulate/charades/trivial pursuit/cards against humanity, while everyone laughs at grandma.  Whatever they are, you wouldn't be without them.

As your children grow up these traditions can change.  You could mourn the loss of innocence. One of the Long Suffering Husband's sayings is, "Change is bad," but I prefer to embrace change.

There is one Christmas tradition in our house that is fast becoming my favourite.

We are not normally a soap watching family and the LSH is usually very much in charge of the TV zappers. If there is something I want to watch then he usually retreats upstairs to the bedroom but at Christmas that would just be rude.  The prodigal daughter and my sister love Eastenders and so he has to sit through it.

At first he pretends that he has to walk the dog but the dog is not interested in another walk, being too busy lying in front of the fire pumping out turkey farts to make everyone's eyes water. He thinks about washing up but he has been too efficient and the kitchen is spotless.  He offers to make tea but most people are still drinking.  He has no choice but to sit back on the sofa in front of the TV.

"I haven't seen this since she was sixteen," he points to Sharon.
"Shhhhh."
"Who's that?"
"That?  Oh, him.  He's Shirley's son he raped Danny Dyer's wife."
"When?  Is he allowed to be in the same show as him then?"
"Dad."
He pretends he's not watching anymore.
"Ooh, someone's in the boot. Is it Vincent?" My daughter and sister discuss the hypnagogic plotline.
"That boy is evil.  Of course he knows.  He's like Damien."
"Who's Damien?  Is that Danny Dyer's character?"
They ignore him. I lift my nose from my book and hum the Omen theme tune quietly.
"I don't think Vincent is in the boot."
"I think it's his mum."
"No. Yes.  Well, maybe.  It could be Fatboy."
"Oh yes.  Fatboy.  Good call.  Fatboy could be in the boot."
The LSH tries to join in again.  "What boot?"
"The car."
He looks puzzled.

"There's someone locked in the boot of the car. Keep up."

"Which car?"

"The one at the Mitchell's garage."

"Oh, the black Nissan 330z."

"Err, right, whatever."

"Is Fatboy fat?" he asks, not unreasonably.

"NOOOOOOO. PHIIIIIIIL," they shout.

"This is cheery. Does someone always have to die at Christmas?"

My Dad wakes up from his sofa-snooze.

"Have they found out that Ken Barlow killed Lucy yet?"

They ignore him. He does it on purpose.

"I could write this," my mum adds.

I couldn't. It's too surreal.

The wonderful thing about this Christmas tradition is that it's the gift that keeps giving. By New Year's Day he will be slightly hooked. He won't be able to tear himself away from getting explanations of why someone is being drowned, someone else is beating up their husband, a little boy is being tortured in his reform school or why the new mother puts her newborn of questionable parentage in the microwave.

Maybe I could write it.