‘I felt overstuffed and dull and disappointed, the way I always do the day after Christmas, as if whatever it was the pine boughs and the candles and the silver and gilt-ribboned presents and the birch-log fires and the Christmas turkey and the carols at the piano promised never came to pass.’ Sylvia Plath – The Bell Jar
As you know, I’m a sucker for Christmas. I love the twinkly lights, the sense of wonder and expectation, the buzz of the family (when everyone’s getting on, of course), the treats, the odd feeling that creeps up on you when you have lost track of time and have no idea what day of the week it is anymore… I’m about there right now; how about you? Do the words of Sylvia Plath ring true, even though you wish they didn’t?
Through my own mental fog, I’m wondering whether this will prove to have been my mother’s last Christmas (as she seems to think), but in case it was, I’m glad we shared it with her. Seldom have I witnessed such an excruciatingly slow opening of gifts, but there’s no doubt we will remember it in years to come and smile indulgently in a way I certainly didn’t on the 25th. For this task, she still uses the penknife which, she proudly told us several times, is the same one that she used to carry in her blazer pocket at all times. These days she’d be knicked before she got as far as registration, let alone Assembly.
Since she still lives in the house where I was born and grew up, it was strange to be in the living room where we each used to have our own specific area for opening presents. Mine was the armchair by the TV; but there was no pile of goodies this year, mostly because the children had already clubbed together to give us a voucher for new year treats in Cape Town, and Amazon tokens don’t need much wrapping even though they are extremely useful for people who travel and are trying not to accumulate ‘stuff’.
Back in the day, this ritual of unwrapping could only happen after morning stockings, church, lunch and the Queen’s speech. It’s a mark of my mother’s state of mind that, as she also told us several times, she can’t get used to Charles being King and, possibly for the first time in her life, elected not to stand up for the National Anthem (I kid you not).
It’s the first time I’d spent Christmas Day with my mum at that address since 1986. Tradition was also blown out of the water for me as I cooked salmon for Christmas dinner, having stuffed ourselves full of turkey at my sister’s on Christmas Eve. Mince pies still made an appearance on the menu, but it did all feel rather strange.
We’re now in that no-man’s-land between Christmas and January which I find quite tricky, when Sylvia Plath’s words resonate, unwelcome as they are, in my head. Daylight hours still feel so short; it’s hard to leave a warm bed, and the cumulative effect of unusually rich food and too much sugar leaves a lingering lethargy. We probably all need a good rest, some early nights and space to gather our thoughts before we plunge into another new year.
The good news for me, is that I was able to purchase a couple of books I’ve wanted for a while, so apart from catching up on all the cracking TV I’ve missed while in the southern hemisphere, I’m looking forward to settling down with those. The thought of new year resolutions and actual plans seems rather daunting right now, so I’ll thrust Sylvia’s gloom to one side, reach again for the truths in all those carols that I love, and find a new space on the sofa with a pile of books, a glass of something warming and I’ll see you in January.
Thanks to the following for their images: Szabolcs Molnar, Igor Link , Claudio Schwarz from Unsplash & Myriams from Pixabay
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