Lapland, we have a problem

I HATE CHRISTMAS. Now that I’ve got your attention, I’ll lay off the histrionics and be a little more candid: I don’t hate every Christmas, I don’t even hate the impending one but I am indifferent to it. Inordinately so. My disengagement with the forthcoming festivities is so acute that it’s actually taken me aback. I don’t know how or why it’s happened but one thing is certain: I’ve been well and truly Grinchified.

Let’s put things into perspective: I once kept my Christmas tree up (unilluminated between February and October because otherwise: hello weirdo!) for fourteen months straight because I couldn’t bear to take it down. Not as out there as you’d think; basically a chintzy art installation enlivening the corner of your living room. Unconventional, maybe, but undeniably fun (ignore the fact that we’d anthropomorphised it to such an extent that entering or exiting the room demanded a cheery “Hello, Christmas tree,” “Goodbye, Christmas tree” every single time).

Bizarre peculiarities aside, you get the picture: I was a Christmas fiend. This time around, for the first time in years, I haven’t bothered to bake my fabled cake (key ingredient: an aniseed-flavoured Ibizan liquer). A few weeks ago I even mooted the idea of forgoing a tree altogether. I’ve purposely avoided Xmas 24 (previously unheard of), the Food Network (ditto) and the music channels. You can keep your Christmas joy and cheer, I simply don’t want to know.

So, what’s prompted this Yuletide volte-face? I can’t pinpoint any specific cause but here are a few theories:

• This year has already been eventful (illness, new baby) by anyone’s standards. Christmas involves so much *doing*. Could it be I just want a little peace and quiet? Hmm, maybe but I’m not convinced.
• Have I finally been smothered by the deluge of all things Christmas that inundate us from August on? Possibly. I mean, who the hell wants to hear Shakin Stevens when it’s 25 degrees outside?
• Consumerism. Hardly an original gripe but the whole thing has become so unbearably commercial. Don’t even get me started on Black Friday. What a swizz. People smashing each other over the heads to get their hands on a massive telly they probably don’t need equals a very sad Baby Jesus, indeed. That I probably acquired repetitive strain injury refreshing the Tesco page in my vain attempt to procure an obscenely reduced coffee machine is entirely beside the point.
• The ads. They tug at your heart strings while stealthily loosening the ones on your purse. That cuddly flightless bird? He’d steal your wallet, he would. No doubt about it.
• The neighbour from hell. In a neighbourhood that’s 75% pensioner, 24% young family, trust me to live next door to the hard-partying night-owl whose only purpose in life is to give me a nervous breakdown. He plays football. Indoors. At 2am. While shouting. And drinking. And singing. On a Monday. Or Tuesday. Or any other day. And he won’t stop. Even when I complain. Did I mention he’s about forty? Is it any wonder that festive cheer eludes me?
• It’s still November! Maybe I’ll have an epiphany come December 1. At the risk of contradicting almost everything I’ve just said, the signs are there: The Snowman might have already had a surreptitious viewing; I may have looked wistfully at the spot where a tree once proudly stood for more than a year. I might have enquired in passing about local Carol services. We’ll see.

Maybe this Grinchitis isn’t as season-threatening as I first feared? Could it be that rather than being apathetic about Christmas, I’m simply not ready for it yet? Perhaps I really have become an incorrigible old grump, more ‘Bah Humbug’ than ‘Jingle Bells’? Maybe I just need a good night’s sleep? Come back to me in a few weeks but, for now, enjoy the rest of your Advent Eve as I’m definitely not calling it. No way.

Thanks for reading! x