Today will be the first time
I’ve spent Christmas Day with both of my parents since the early 90s.
It’s more by accident than
design that it’s been so long. We don’t despise each other. We’re not an
estranged family being reunited à la Surprise
Surprise, which is good, because Christmas is hard enough without having to put
up with either Holly Willoughby or Cilla Black. What if Cilla sang? She’d start
quietly, as ever; lulling you into a false sense of security until that full-on
Scouse foghorn comes out. If Holly was there, she’d bring her friend Fearne
Cotton, and I can’t be dealing with that.
My early Christmas memories
are probably the same as most children of the 80s. They’re a sea of paper
chains and chintzy tinsel (good band name), over-decorated Christmas trees,
paper hats and playing with my presents. It seems like a lifetime ago now,
which is fair enough, as for me, it sort of is.
Today is a moment of
note. It’ll be a nice way to round off a year that’s had both high and low
points. It won’t be the same as my childhood Christmases - I’m too old to play
with a Big Yellow Teapot - but it will
be nice. My mum is bound to get too competitive over a board game. Of that
there’s no doubt. It’s also my first Christmas with a wife. That’s far too grown
up for my liking, but I like it nevertheless.
Happy Crimbo Everybody. The
question is, who doesn’t ‘Crimbo’ have an H in it when ‘Christmas’ does? Bloody
alphabet.