Christmas approaches. The lights erratically flash on the tree, punters down their pints with a Christmassy wink, carol singers wheezily knock on doors, and I, much like every other Christmas, have caught a cold.
In case you have not guessed, I feel a little tepid when it comes to Christmas. However do not fear, this is not the beginning of a rant on capitalism, materialism, or any other -ism. My opinion does not stem from an interesting and article-worth indignance. I just don’t really care anymore.
Before Father Christmas dissolved into thin air, it was the pleasantest of literary realities. Even when my brothers began to openly make jokes about Father Christmas being my parents, I would shake my head vehemently. “No, no, no!”, I would exclaim, “you’ve got it all wrong!” The poetic notion of an old happy Platonic man delivering presents alongside many intelligent and benevolent reindeer, was an image I wasn’t keen to shed. I was too young to question why he gave to those who needed it far less. I tried not to question why the girl in my class got letters from him in the lead up to Christmas, whilst my parents told me that he was far too busy in Lapland for communication. The mystery of Father Christmas was my own happy little story, played out before me every year.
Alongside this were the myriad of books which appeared from our attic every year. I learnt that everybody celebrated Christmas – bears, mice, babies, and even the Grinch. As I developed into the familiar model of a grumpy teen I was once caught off-guard by the books that were reminiscently pulled down from the attic. For on every page I turned, I couldn’t find the words. Much like when YouTube clips of Pingu are sprung up on laptops by the occasional nostalgic friend, I couldn’t quite believe that Don’t Forget me, Father Christmas or The Snowman didn’t have words. Those stories remained so strongly in my head, and yet, when I tried to reread them, all that stood in front of me were illustrations.
Christmas, I learnt, is essentially a big fat lie. Told gracefully, elegantly and elaborately, but it still remains a large helping of deceit. But readers, don’t fear, there’s a moral in it – how exciting. For see! See how story-telling is so integral to our lives! Just like Father Christmas was illustrated through our parents’ story-telling, we made our own stories too through the thread of a decent picture book. For that I thank you Christmas. But that does not mean I will be humming Michael Bauble through my sniffles, or decking the halls with boughs of holly. And I don’t advise you do either. But, in the true spirit of Christmas, maybe open a book. And make sure it’s not from your reading list.
