Dear Christmas

Dear Christmas,

You can be a real bitch.

The endless Christmas parties that start in November. NO-VEM-BER (NO-WAY, more like). The obfuscation, in your seasonal fug, of several loved ones’ birthdays I’d like to celebrate on their own merits, rather than as an afterthought to your excessive fanfare. The increased presence of numpty shoppers (I mean, I know not everyone is as prodigiously gifted a shopper as me, but, for the love of sweet baby Jesus, step aside and let me show you how you burn plastic). The increased presence of Christmas carols. The increased presence of misbehaving relations. The increased presence of plastic decorations. The sugar comas. The humidity. The mosquitoes. The pre-packaged turkey stuffing.

Having digested the above statements (the same cannot be said about pre-packaged turkey stuffing), it may be hard for you to believe what I have to say next. But, in spite of appearances, I love you, Christmas, like the way Mark Darcy loves Bridget Jones: just the way you are. And here’s why:
• Shortbread stars, dusted with sugar and wrapped in cello bags;
• MamaK and PapaK’s three cats maliciously eyeing off the Christmas tree;
• Discovering new favourite stores/sellers/producers in the process of shopping. If you haven’t done so already, get yourselves down to Lonsdale St Traders – it’s a trip;
• Reconnecting with old favourite stores/sellers/producers in the process of shopping. Mrs Peterson’s new range is swell, and Able and Game are now doing tea towels. Be still, my beating heart;
• Cinnamon and nutmeg, in everything;
• Comparing family chaos dispatches with my most understanding friends;
• Mangoes and cherries, the perfect antidotes to commercial, over-processed food;
• Christmas Morning Craft, an evolving part of our family ritual. This year, we’re ironicaly painting garden gnomes;
• Decorating my writing desk with stars as a cheesy reminder to aim high in the last throes of PhDrafting; and, best of all
• Knowing that, at some point on December 25, something hilarious will go down (it always does), and the six of us will laugh so hard our food-stuffed stomachs will ache till New Year’s.

It’s because of this, Christmas, that I forgive you for being a bitch. In fact, you’re rather grand, and I’m glad you stopped by at the end of a hectic-fantastic (Hectastic?) year.

Because, deep down, you and I both know your secret: that really, you’re alright.

Lots of love,

Peggy

Xoxoxo

Ps in the interests of getting the PhDrafting PhDone, this is my last post for 2012. Merry Christmas all, and a happy new year. I’m sure it’s going to be merry and bright!