Christmas and all that

You'd think, with all the Christmas and Solstice themed books I've been reading recently, that I must really love Christmas. And I sort of do; I like candles and fairy lights and the smell of pine indoors, and carol singing and huddling up against the darkness until the sun returns, and I like having a nice long break from work and getting back to find that I don't have an exploding inbox because everyone else has been off too.

Christmas itself, on the other hand, is always going to feel like somebody else's festival; a day with a hollow at its heart where the specialness should be, where I feel awkward and out of place and like I should really leave it to the people who it matters to, but it's too ubiquitous for that. I find giving presents horribly stressful, because I'm never sure if I've chosen the right things, and I find getting presents incredibly awkward. (T and I stopped doing Christmas presents years ago, which definitely makes things easier.)

I'm much happier when Christmas is over; Boxing Day and today (the Boxing Day of Boxing Day) have been nice relaxed days involving bubble and squeak and cheese and generally grazing on leftovers, making a start on sewing a pair of yellow cord trousers, and watching undemanding TV. And it looks as though we may still be able to visit my parents at the end of the week, which I had feared was starting to look unlikely. (Not that I'm sure, in general, that I'm happy that the government seem to be sticking with their strategy of just letting everyone get COVID, but here we are.)