Christmas is a funny time of the year. A season you tend to love or hate. A bit like Marmite I suppose. You tend to love it when you have lots of friends and family and places to go. When you rush from activity to activity drinking festively alcoholic drinks and stuffing your face with canapes. Or perhaps that is EXACTLY what you hate about it.
Or you hate it because it is so commercial. Or you have nowhere to go and you are that sad lonely person with one Christmas bauble hanging on your window like Mr Bean. Or maybe you just aren’t into Christmas, enforced upon you by what you believe to be an archaeic religion.
Personally I have mixed feelings about it.
I used to love Christmas. The waking up in the early morning to see what Santa had dropped off. Going to church in your new clothing before the full heat of a bright blue summers day hit you. The way Gauteng empties out and slows down – as far as it is able – as people flock like lemmings for the coast.
England I have never really adjusted to the fact that it is cold. Although in some ways perhaps it is more postcardy. The lights up on the high streets. The throngs of shoppers, who retail in a demented fashion I’ve only ever seen on red hanger sale days when I worked in a store. Mulled wine and warm mince pies. And turkey everywhere. In sandwiches. As meal options in all restaurants.
The thing is I have never spent Christmas in this country in the same place twice. I can count off each year by where I spent that Christmas.
This one will be no different.
There will be turkey and inexplicable English brussel sprouts.
I will keep you updated.