Countdown!

We've all had those dreams (some may call them nightmares) where we are trying to reach a deadline of some kind, but are being repeatedly thwarted by constant setbacks, prevarications, delays and frustrations. In my experience, I usually waken before the deadline is ever achieved, thereby leaving me with a sense of being unfulfilled and saddened. Such dreams are quite common, I know, and thankfully that's all they are - just dreams. However, I regret to inform you, dear reader, that the reality of my daily life has been trapped in exactly such a format for the past two weeks. I've had a massive deadline to meet (completing the sale of my late father's house), but as the unstoppable date hurtled towards me with the force of a runaway train, I was presented with obstacle after immovable obstacle. It was all horribly frustrating, and totally time-gobbling. Hence the absence of a recent posting on here - with apologies.

And now, another deadline fast approaches to cause us all continued and crushing stress. I'm talking about the debacle that is Christmas, of course. Even though I always claim to dislike Christmas, nevertheless I usually get carried along by the festivities and make a reasonable stab at complying with the demands of polite society. I normally prepare appropriate lists and draw up suitable plans to ensure that all the accepted milestones are met. I buy cards and write them, slipping in a newsy note to those whom I haven't seen for a while; I buy and wrap a series of gifts for a select list of close loved ones; and I stock up on alcohol and food in readiness for cheery guests. But this year, because of the horrid tasks that have befallen me in recent weeks, and despite there being only five days to go, I have done none of that.

Those of you who were reading this blog a year ago will remember that I posted (across several days) an account of a dismal Christmas I once spent in the company of my Great Aunt Dolores at the home of the Earl of Maugersbury. That year we had little more than a tin of spam and a bottle of cheap brandy with which to celebrate, and so I feel that if I survived that, I can survive this year's rather hasty last minute arrangements. For a start, I simply won't be sending any cards to anyone. If you think about it, nobody will probably notice until mid-January anyway, by which time I will have had the opportunity to drop them a New Year's message explaining why they were missed off the list. As for the gifts - well, some people apparently rush out on Christmas Eve and purchase everything then, and as I have a very limited number of people to buy for, that idea seems both feasible and achievable. I can pop into a supermarket in the week and get the required provisions, and I have a little foot-high Christmas tree in a box which I can whip out by way of decorations, and hey presto - I shall be ready!

The only fly in the ointment to this cunning plan is this: Because of it being (as we are told) the 'Festive Season', there are countless other distractions to create obstacles to next Saturday's runaway train. I'm talking about all the invitations to parties, dinners and drinks that come flying my way at this time of year. It already started about a week ago and I have been out on the town every evening since. The coming week offers no respite from this either - most days offer clashes of social functions too, such that I shall be an exhausted alcoholic at the end of it all. Add to that the various financial, domestic and business chores that face me this week, and it's going to be quite a ride.

And the tear-jerking tragedy to all of this is that, as ever, I shall be taking that ride alone. Oh yes, surrounded by dozens of lovely friends and acquaintances, true - but as I slam my front door at the end of each hectic and dazzling day, I shall still be quite, quite alone. That's probably the real nightmare in all of this.

It's a little bit funny, this feeling inside......

Oh, How We Suffer!

So, we have survived the last week of cold weather and snow. Here in Nottingham, nestled as we are in the warm bosom of the cosseted Midlands, we rarely get extreme conditions - and so it proved to be this time. Other parts of the country suffered far worse disruption than we did, with much heavier falls of snow. I delight in this privilege; although I appear to be in the minority in this, if the comments on Facebook are anything to go by. It would seem that nearly everyone was hoping for a bigger dump of snow than we actually received, and most were expressing childlike joy when the first flakes appeared from the sky, followed by miserable disappointment when the first covering was deemed as insufficient, and when the second covering disappeared within a few wet hours. Don't get me wrong - I do find snow to be visually appealing, and of course it is most welcome when I've spent money on travelling to Europe for a skiing holiday - but when business has to be conducted, snow is an absolute pain in the neck.

However, there is another area of winter life from which even here in the Midlands we cannot escape; and one which for me is even more difficult to endure. I'm talking about the Festival of Christmas. I hate the whole thing and only ever used to acquiesce to its pervasive presence in the past because it meant that I would get a week off work (in the old days, when I used to work for a living, that is). Apart from that, as far as I am concerned, the entire event is an unwelcome and unnecessary inconvenience . That the whole laborious process begins in early November is an even bigger irritant - it's as if people have nothing better to do than to wish part of their year away. Messages appearing on Facebook immediately after Bonfire Night such as: "Only eight weeks to go until the big day!" or "Wooh! Heard Christmas Carols in the Broadmarsh today! Yey!" are pure anathema to me. Then we get the endless pressure to spend more than we ought to; the shops start filling up with mindless vulgar crowds from early December; invitations to more and more pointless festive functions start flooding in; and then worst of all - we are continually exhorted to 'cheer up', because it's "Christmas".

Cheer up? Why should the impending arrival of some futile commercial festival, totally lacking in taste and sensibility, induce us to 'cheer up'? December is always a busy time for me anyway, so the last thing I need is more pressure piling on - pressure to buy Christmas cards and presents; pressure to plan menus and shopping; pressure to clean my apartment in readiness for entertaining the many visitors who will descend upon me. There is nothing 'cheerful' about any of this - it all represents nothing more than a burden of disagreeable chores in my view. And for what? Christmas means nothing to me - even the Christians don't know what it's all about anymore. It's just an excuse to be over-indulgent, over-sentimental and over-excited.

However, there is a tiny twinkle of clemency for all of this - something that has slowly crept up on me, unspoken. My two lovely daughters will be spending the holiday with me this year. Arriving on Christmas Eve, they will stay with me here in the apartment and we shall be spending the 'Big Day' here together. This will be truly delightful - even though they might be disappointed by the total lack of Christmas decorations (I won't be putting them up), we will nevertheless ensconce ourselves within these four walls, eat, drink and play backgammon, or some similar diversion. We shall no doubt have champagne in the morning, and whisky with The Queen on Radio 4. I might even buy some crackers - the sort that go with cheese, that is, not the sort you pull open in order to make yourself look ridiculous in a flimsy paper hat, or delight in a plastic water-pistol (that doesn't work) and a cheap, tacky joke.

This year (2010) has been particularly unpleasant for me so far - and its final closing cloak of despair (December) couldn't really be any worse. All I have to do though, is to shut my eyes, hold on tight, and wait for the arrival of my girls. Ooh, I'm getting quite excited about it after all!

All together now: "Chestnuts roasting on an open fire...."