So there I was thinking I was sure to be crowned Domestic Goddess of the year when all hell broke loose.
Not five days ago I was lecturing you lovely people on how to deal with the horror that is Christmas these days, when I opened my eyes and suddenly realised that opting out is all very well when you live in the Outer Hebrides, or if you’ve got skin as thick as a feather filled cushion, but if you live five minutes away from most of your Christmas loving relatives or if you’ve got a one-year-old relying on you to bring Santa to his door, then there is no other choice than to grit your teeth and get on with providing Christmas in the nicest, cosiest, least screechy way possible.
So I take it all back. Reality bashed me on the head and told me that Christmas my way is a lovely illusion and any hopes I had of delegating anything were quite frankly laughable. Monday morning I fastened a little boy with the worst nappy rash you have ever seen into his pushchair, loaded my bag with everything a Mommy needs to do battle with Christmas shopping, tied up my trainers and went out to do battle with consumerism. It was, to put it mildly, beyond hell.
Old ladies were keeling over with heat and exhaustion, men were standing around looking fuddled and asking any woman willing to make eye contact, pertinent questions (she’s about your size…), kids were screaming, Father Christmas was drunk, Finley was miserable and my feet were three sizes bigger than usual. And none of it would matter if I’d got what I’d gone out for, but there was nothing left, so I bought a lot of rubbish and hated myself for it.
When I was just about at the end of my tether, I stepped out of Woolworths loaded with selection boxes and it was snowing! Finley couldn’t believe his eyes, everybody was laughing and just for a teeny moment it felt the way Christmas is supposed to feel.
Great big flakes of chunky white snow that would have been heavenly if I was wrapped up in a snuggly dressing gown with a cup of hot chocolate in front of the fire.