Monday, 27 December 2010

Why I hate Christmas. Part 1 - Planning

Christmas starts the year before, usually during that previous Christmas and you stop and think to yourself, 'This is shit. I'm not taking another year of it.' You then begin to plan in your head the most fantastic and wonderful Christmas day. It's going to be groundbreaking. The International Space Station is going to hear about how amazing this day was. You discuss your intentions with a select member of your family. Doing this convinces you even more that all of it is entirely possible to do.

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So sure you are of this, you announce it to your family. And I really was damn sure.

You see,  a lot of things were supposed to happen this year. Moving to a place that would accommodate 6 adults and a child for dinner, Fuck it, lets think big and invite friends too. Meeting my future husband, getting a car, organising my life. None of these things happened. Instead, I got fatter and moaned about it some more.
As the year goes on you realise that you're going to need some sort of miracle to pull this off. Then, so does your family, so they plan Christmas as normal, and everyone bar 2 people start to pray for them to go to Waitrose instead of Iceland, or just for the day to hurry up and get it over with,

As December gets closer, you visit the house that will be the venue for Christmas dinner, as it has for every year of your god damned life. You notice something. Something horrific. There, on the kitchen table, you see the Iceland Christmas party food brochure. You die a little inside. Panic sets in. You offer for the millionth time to get to their house early, cook everything yourself and even pay for everything. But they are stuck in their ways, so you convince them with all your heart that you're the next female Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall as opposed to Heston marry me Blumenthall. But no. The argument that could have converted Saddam to Christianity is useless. For these people are your Grandparents.

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