Funny Sort of Christmas.

It’s been a funny sort of Christmas. Being snow-bound, unable to get the car out for a week, had its limitations, but there were compensations. Not being able to visit relatives was one. That’s a biggie. Poorly-wrapped presents unravelling in the boot, bottles rolling around no matter how well they’re packed, traffic jams, stressed-out drivers, and that’s only the journey. On arrival, there’s the usual routine: traipsing around other peoples’ houses, dispensing gifts, swapping kisses, pretending to admire every new acquisition no matter how hideous or inappropriate- oh, such torture.

‘Ooh, what a lovely conservatory.’

Sniffy reply, ‘It’s an orangery, actually.’

‘Oh, right, of course it is. Don’t you miss having a garden though?’ (the new ‘orangery’ having replaced the back garden, actually touching the hedge of the house next door)

Even more sniffily. ‘We have the best of both worlds. An outdoor room that can be used all year.’

“Ah, yes, I can see that.’ Moving swiftly back into the main house as frostbite nipped at my extremities.

Next port of call. ‘A puppy! How lovely. What a funny little chap with his floppy ears. Was he a rescue?’

‘He cost £1400.’

‘Oh.’

‘The breeder says the long ears are fine because his mother was a show champion and she had long ears as well.’

‘Hmm!’

Friends done, relatives next.

‘We’d given you up.’

‘The traffic was…’

Oh, never mind excuses, at least you made it at last. Better than that year when you never got here at all.’

‘We were in Australia.’

‘Always something. Your sister seems to manage very well.’

‘She lives next door but one. You see her every day.’

‘Don’t start. If you’re going to pick an argument you’d better just collect your presents and go. Not too much to ask to spend a civil hour or so once a year, I’d have thought.’

A difficult day with much smiling and nodding in agreement at a series of contentious and occasionally appalling pronouncements, three line whip in effect – ‘Not a word, just sit still and say nothing.’

Boxing Day. More relatives. The odd ones. Throwbacks. The ones we see at weddings and funerals. But, we’re in the area. They know we’re here. So we pop in. Keep the peace.

It’s worse every year. Nothing in common with these people apart from accident of birth. I sit on an upright chair, trying to divorce myself from the reality of a mangy dog humping my leg, a babble of noise as a dozen people talk, well shout, at once, eat yet another mince pie where the pastry outweighs the filling by a ratio of ten to one. I smile. Respond to direct questions, knowing my reply is neither required nor heard.

After three days, we head back home. Duty done for another year. Knackered, nerves frayed, a car packed with things we don’t need, don’t want, in some cases don’t even know what it is.

“Not too bad,’ my wife says as we approach sanctuary, ‘Not as bad as last time, anyway.’

‘Hmm. About the same, I’d say.’

We lapse into shell-shocked silence once more. Oh, we get over it, Usually by mid-February.

This year, ah yes, this year was different. We were snowed in. Couldn’t get out. No cars left our road all week. So, we had to ring up and explain. Stay put. Just the two of us. What a shame, they all said. Poor you, at Christmas too.’

‘Yes,’ we agreed, ‘It’s awful. No fun at all this year.’ Hugging ourselves and each other. Best Christmas ever. We’re praying for snow next year, starting about 22nd December, thick, dense, bringing the country to a halt. That’ll do nicely.