A list of things I would sell to relive Christmas 2016 again: my waist-length hair, the entirety of my vintage wardrobe, my growing camera collection, my flat-mate, a kidney.
This might seem like an overreaction to an annual holiday, I mean, most people love Christmas but, I LOVE Christmas. In fact, there was a time where I was once referred to as “aggressively Christmassy” and I wholeheartedly agree.
My ideal moment in time is laying in front of the fire, being incubated by the warmth, an orange glow licking at my limbs. It’s impossible to move because my stomach is showing signs of the early stages of pregnancy, but really it was that last piece of turkey that pushed me over the edge and into oblivion. All my loved ones are drifting in and out of sleep, their eyes straining to see the old Disney film playing in the background while chocolates are being passed around absent-mindedly. My brother is opening a board game and setting up the pieces with a sherry in his hand. All of our thoughtful presents to each other are firmly seated in the corner of my eye, as well as the candles and fairy lights growing stronger in the darkness as the sun finally sets.
My brother and I grew up with the most magical Christmas’. We don’t have a huge family but we are all incredibly close to each other and every year was memorable. My mum worked crazy hours when we were small so that precious week when we had her all to ourselves was so cherished. I would wake up in my Barbie nightie, my long brown fringe covering my sleepy eyes and my mum would dress me in an outfit she had spent weeks making herself. She always did, and still does, make me feel like a Christmas angel. I had a very loving childhood, and I’m forever grateful for it.
We (my boyfriend, my housemate and I) put our Christmas tree up on December 1st, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I’d been amping myself up to Christmas since November. By the time the 23rd arrived, I had packed my bags and scurried, laden with presents, to my Grandparent’s house in Berkhamsted. My family is very antisocial at Christmas, in the respect that it is us time. We don’t socialise with neighbours/friends/acquaintances over this short period of time. Instead, we spend every waking hour together.
The days are filled with decadent feasts of rich food, alcohol flowing from 11 am, Christmas films circled with a giant red pen in the Radio Times and subsequently, Christmas films on repeat (The Grinch is a necessity, Harry Potter is a classic addition), chocolates on the hour every hour, candles flicking by the fire, forgetting what it’s like to feel hungry, long crisp walks in the morning, vintage board games, charades followed by hysterical laughter, late nights, early mornings, intense conversation, reminiscing over cups and cups of tea, last minute wrapping, savouring the eventual unwrapping, constant cooking, the sweet smell of mince pies baking and falling asleep by the fire after a marathon of overindulgence.
I spent most of my boxing day being taught how to properly follow dressmaking patterns by my mum, which made me a little emotional. All those years she spent her evenings making me my beautiful Christmas dresses, and now it was time for her to show me how to make my own. It’s safe to say that I am now fully in the clutches of the post-Christmas blues.