THIS time last year, you could have called me Mrs Claus.
I had a freezer-full of festive food, like the smug Crimbo fan I’ve always been.
My presents were wrapped, I loved Christmas.
But this year is a whole different sack of misery.
Christmas and I have had a major falling out.
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Call me Scrooge.
Paint me green and call me the Grinch.
Call me what you like.
I couldn’t give a pork stuffing about the whole thing.
For the first time in living memory I’m proper bah humbug.
And, I don’t know if it’s because misery attracts misery but it feels to me as if most people I speak to about Christmas this year feel the same.
Mention the C-word and heads start shaking and people begin tut-tutting.
This year hasn’t been my favourite, for various reasons, and it just feels like we’re all going to hell in a handcart.
War is raging, the Earth is dying, everyone is struggling to pay their leccy bill and even the weather’s been rubbish.
It doesn’t feel like there’s much to look forward to, to be honest.
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To add insult to my Christmas misery, I am still a Single Pringle.
I’ve never felt further from the prospect of a delicious snog under the mistletoe in all my life.
Forget a sneaky sit down, I barely have time to breathe.
You have to admit there is something romantic about having someone by your side as you drink your hot choc on Christmas morning.
It’s nice to have that special someone to buy a pressie for.
But as things stand all I can envisage is living out my sad and lonely life with only two idiot bulldogs for company.
I’ve had enough of the excessive hype over Christmas and shopping.
It’s little wonder people become allergic to the festive season when they have to look at tinsel and Christmas cards for four months of the year.
The long, intensive build-up, for what is effectively two days, is enough to bring me out in hives.
It’s hardly breaking news that when it comes to Christmas, the majority of the workload falls on women.
Sure, there might be an exception out there but it’s us girls who run the show.
We do the food shop, the cooking and the organising, we buy the presents, we decorate and wrap.
By the time we get to Christmas Day we’re run ragged.
Then it’s time to start the clearing up.
I normally do a big Swedish Christmas Eve followed by an English Christmas Day, so you might imagine it’s pretty full-on in my house.
Forget having time for a sneaky sitdown — I barely have time to breathe.
Added to the two months of cooking and freezing, I also have the added pressure of managing everyone’s expectations and moods.
You can be sure there will be some kind of atmosphere between family members.
Someone ALWAYS has an issue with someone else, and playing happy families is exhausting.
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I’ve always boasted about how I love having all the kids over and at home for Christmas. But I realise now it’s the idea of it I love.
The reality comes with so much tension I feel tempted to pull a sickie.
But women don’t tend to get days off, do we?
It wasn’t that I was particularly over- ambitious last year but like so many people, being single, I ended up taking on everything by myself.
I overdid it and remember shouting across the table that I would never flaming do it again.
Something, I learn now, has been etched on my children’s minds since.
But it’s hard when you’re a perfectionist to not do things properly.
Standards are high but, idiotically, I set those standards.
I only have myself to blame really.
Or it could just be that I feel the overwhelming pressure of society and commercialism like a materialistic snowplough driving a wedge through my sanity.
I’ve probably previously loved Christmas as an adult because it was not always the best when I was a kid.
I had parents in different countries and no real sense of family togetherness.
So, as soon as I grew my own family I thrived on making it just as I wanted it — it was a time for wrapping my arms around everyone and keeping us all close.
But time doesn’t stand still and three out of four of my Ungratefuls are adults and carving out lives for themselves.
This year one will be in Australia, the others will be coming and going.
I appreciate this moaning won’t sit well with those who don’t have family to spend Christmas with, or those who have lost loved ones, or for the increasing number of people who simply can’t even afford a couple of pigs in blankets.
I know I’m lucky in many ways but my mood dictates that this year I will be dialling down the hype and the pressure for perfection and the expectation of happy families.
I’ll be concentrating on the things that are important . . . just getting through the days without completely losing the plot.
To that end, we’re getting a takeaway on one of the days and having some pre-made, defrosted food on the other.
I shall be in my pyjamas on Christmas Day, doing as little as possible — apart from faking enthusiasm — and praying that normal service will be restored in time for next year.
With or without a breakdown.
