The Birthday Gas Man had insisted that no one remembers Christmas or the presents they received unless something awful happened. He might have a point. We all remember the year I burnt the pigs in blankets.
I’m not sure I really agree with him. Some people don’t remember very much. The Long Suffering husband has an excellent visual memory and can probably remember what everyone was wearing every Christmas since 1978 but can’t remember me telling him that I was going out on Wednesday night. I’m more likely to remember the funny stories. I remember the year I got a guitar because my little sister had a toy where little people went round on an automated train, up some steps and slid down a slide back into the train and she spent the whole of Christmas Day lying on her belly in her chocolate stained baby-grow vest; chubby legs bouncing behind her with excitement as she watched the little people go round and round. “Boggies. More. Boggies!” she shouted over and over.
It is true that many Christmases blend together and it can be difficult to say which year the funny things happened in. I can’t remember if the year my mum fed sherry to the fish was the same year she had to go to bed before dinner, although now that I have hosted a family party I can definitely see the appeal of a bottle of sherry.
It’s the tradition that makes the holidays blend into one. If you do the same thing every year, how can you tell them apart? It’s also the tradition that I love.
I hoped that this year wouldn’t be one that we remembered for the wrong reasons: the first year without dad and Mum being not so well. However, the traditions have made it unmemorable in a very special way.
The Christmas Eve church service is one of my favourite things. When the light from the candles is passed from one to the other it always makes me feel a bit emotional. This year the service might only be memorable for the fact that I complimented the vicar on his amazing organ(ist), while my family shrank away and my friend tried to explain for me.
This is followed by prosecco and mince pies with some friends. This year we played cards against humanity, which is always really funny but surprisingly not memorable.
Christmas Day has its traditions that include stockings, presents, food, a snooze and more games. This year’s game was Obama Llama, which is hard to play if you don’t know famous people. It was a good day. I didn’t burn anything and we all ate loads. I have never laughed as much as when we successfully guessed the rhyme on Mum’s card.
“Sheep?”
“No. Better wool than that. I think they have them here.”
“Llama? Alpaca?”
“Yes. Alpaca. The next bit sips a hot drink.”
“Alpaca drinks a cuppa? That’s a terrible rhyme.”
“No, not tea the other one.”
“Coffee.”
“Little frothy one.”
“Alpaca drinks cuppuccino?”
“That doesn’t rhyme. Let’s see the card . Oh, Al Pacino drinks cappuccino.”
“What’s an Al Pacino?”
As usual, I insisted that everyone stay in the same room to watch a film which I then slept all the way through.
Today, though is my absolute favourite. Now that I’m older and we don’t have to do extended family so there is no boxing or fights of any kind. A new tradition has developed: A day for eating cheese and other leftovers, while starting on my pile of Christmas books, wearing a pair of Christmas socks and drinking from my Christmas mug.
Happy Books-In Day.
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