As Christmas approaches and 2015 draws to a close, I am delighted to share a Christmassy excerpt from one of my favourite books of 2015: The wonderful 183 Times a Year by Eva Jordan. Many thanks to Eva Jordan for allowing me to post an excerpt from her fabulous book.
Chapter
26
IT’S BEGINNING TO
LOOK A LOT LIKE CHRISTMAS
Lizzie
Every
year I swear my cynical, socialist views will not be temporarily disabled and blindsided
by some over sentimental, mawkish, consumer driven, drivelling TV advert. I
will not be moved by a Christmas campaign designed to pull at the heartstrings
whilst inadvertently directing the purse strings. I will not be moved, in any
way, shape or form by advertising that has now become as much a part of the
yuletide season as turkey, absurdly silly knitwear and mistletoe and woe in
soapland. And yet, once again, this year like every other year finds me in the
kitchen, after making excuses to absent myself, blubbing like a baby. I am, I
have to admit, stirred by the genius of the Christmas advert.
Everyone
has caught onto it. TV advertising with an emotional connection; nostalgia
poked and provoked. So, here I sit, quite innocently minding my own business, watching
the usual Saturday night TV when out of nowhere, during the commercial breaks,
I am dragged, like poor old Ebenezer Scrooge, back through the memories of my
Christmases past.
First
there are the Christmases of long past—my own childhood. A childhood where my parents
struggled but stayed together nonetheless; money was tight, carpets and wallpaper
were a distasteful mix of browns and olive greens and always had some sort of
flowery design. Flares, long hair and platform shoes were the order of the
day—for men as well as women—and life seemed a little more—simple. We didn’t
have a lot but we were grateful for what we did have and filled the gaps with
love.
Then
of course we are reminded of the big man himself; Christmas past but not so
long ago. Depictions of a round, jolly, seventy something year old in a bright
red, fur trimmed suit to match his beard with black shiny boots and the
all-important sack of toys. Father Christmas doesn’t live at our house anymore
but through the power of advertising I grieve his loss. I am reminded of those
magical moments I created with Cassie and Connor—later Maisy and Simon too.
Carrots left out for Rudolph and a mince pie and glass of sherry for Santa;
decorating the tree to Christmas songs, then worn out and huddled together on the
sofa, cup of hot chocolate in hand, watching something seasonal; and of course
the squeals of delight at some ridiculous ungodly hour,
“He’s
been!! He’s been!!”
And
not a care in the world that I had nothing or very little to open—the giving
far more enjoyable than the receiving.
Then
of course there’s Christmas present. Sulky, surly teenagers; the yoof of
today aggrieved and embarrassed at their parents, grandparents or younger
siblings best efforts to include them in the festive seasons activities, only
to be drawn in at the last minute under mock protest and duress. I sigh out
loud, lost in an abyss of memories.
Where
has it gone? Where have all the years gone?
‘You
okay babe?’ Simon has sneaked up behind me. He wraps his arms around my waist
and holds me—tight. I lay my hands on top of his and hold on for dear life. I
don’t reply. Simon thinks I’m mourning sentimental memories of Christmases
past—which I am—but I’m also grieving the loss of my friend. My best friend.
‘Christmas
adverts eh? They get me every time too.’ I swing round and look at Simon as he folds
me into his chest. He strokes my hair and I can smell him—fresh, familiar and
safe. I eventually look up.
‘The
kids are growing up fast eh?’
Simon
tilts my chin up towards him and looks at me. ‘Just remember the words of one
very wise old man,’ he replies. I frown—confused. ‘It’s not a life, it’s an
adventure!!’ Simon declares in his best cockney accent, which is in fact very
poor. But it’s done the trick and I’m smiling again.
He
bends down and kisses me. His lips are warm and hot on mine. He loves me but he
also wants me. His passion is hard and evident, to me anyway, and for a moment
I’m lost.
‘Urrggghh,
for god sake get a bloody room will you? That’s like well gross,’ Cassie, who
has now joined us, says. A look of horror flicks across her face. I laugh.
‘You’re
just jealous,’ Simon smirks.
‘As
if.’
‘She’s
right Dad. It’s really not right, get a bloody room.’ Maisy has now joined us
too and trailing just behind her is Connor. He looks slightly puzzled.
‘Why
do Mum and Simon have to get a room?’ he asks. Everyone starts to laugh.
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