No.1 for Beauty

Columnist 9
Since when did Christmas get so stressful?

The nights, like Hollyoaks' plotlines and Kylie's golden locks, are getting darker, and it's time to wear your gingerbread man onesie and furry snowman slippers with defiance and pride, ignore the men who are pointing and laughing (they're just jealous). If you prefer hammocks to electric blankets, and flip flops to snow boots, this time of year will have you grumbling into your thermals and wistfully pining for a freak tropical heat wave. Personally, I love the festive season: I'd rather be too cold than too hot, and would rather have my wrinkles lit by twinkly lights and candles than by sunshine. Summer, to me, is a flibbertigibbet, a fleshy sweaty wasteland, but winter means better food - oysters, mince pies, stews* - and better sartorial choice -boots, tights, coats, sequins...and, as you'll know from the myriad merchandise and advertising that invades our lives earlier each year, winter means Christmas.

As we get older, many things lose their sparkle. We no longer jump in puddles because we don't want to get our feet wet. We no longer climb trees because the only firemen we want to bother are the ones with a removable Velcro firesuit and a disturbingly miniscule thong. We no longer get shiny coins under our pillow when we lose teeth because instead we hemorrhage shiny coins trying to keep them. Worst of all, we no longer get excited about Christmas because, well, Christmas becomes that terrible whiny old word: stressful.

Now, Christmas is undoubtedly meant for children, but why does the magic have to disappear with age? Christmas as a grown up means lists. Lists of Christmas cards, lists of presents, lists of food, lists of lists of lists. Then some panicking: Did I remember to send my triple-cousin twice removed a card? Will my Uncle Jack really like that Margaret Thatcher nut cracker?! Where is the bacon? I have no blankets for my pigs! After the lists comes the chaos, the shopping, the wrapping, the - breathe! - cooking. Perhaps you are ultra organised, and plan Christmas with military precision, purchase all your presents in August and manage to produce a sumptuous feast with not one tattie nor parsnip burnt to a crematorial crisp, in which case I salute you and demand to know your secrets.

For the past two years, I have regarded the encroaching festive season with a mixture of fear and dread (much the same way that I regard the start of the football season); the only enjoyable part of Christmas now is watching my toddler's excitement and wonder at all things glittery and yuletide. There are two reasons for my Scrooge-like lack of enthusiasm. As a stay at home Mum, I find it increasingly difficult to stretch the purse strings, and find it harder and harder to buy my large family the gifts I want to give them- and I'm not even talking about extravagant luxuries. I worry myself into a lather about offending people with paltry offerings, and what should be a fun time turns into a knotted-eyebrow-stressfest. The second reason for not giving a stuffed turkey about the C word anymore is that my family and my partner's family live hundreds of miles apart, so in a bid to keep everyone happy we have spent an inordinate amount of time - Guantanamo has nothing on us - wailing in a car through blizzards and perilous conditions with only a box of chocolates, a flask of stewed tea, and a Disney Princess Sing-a-long CD on repeat.

So, in striving to keep the people we love happy at Christmas, I think we all forget to make sure that we ourselves are happy. I know I'm not alone in finding it a struggle. Wouldn't it make more sense to bring the expectations down a notch? Can't we exchange small gifts that are thoughtful, personal and don't come with a hefty price tag? Can't we have the relaxed Christmas we want without spending most of it in transit? Christmas is for children so I wish the pressure to acquire unwanted mountains of shortbread tins and cheeseboards would lessen. This year I am going to channel my inner Nigella (this includes nightly trips to the fridge, oh yes) to make jars of chutney and bottles of homemade booze, I will make them with love, and that will have to do. The other night I saw the most beautiful sunset; skeleton tree silhouettes against a molten red sky, and it gave me hope. This year we - me, my partner, and our daughter - are spending The Big Day in our new home, just the three of us, and for the first time in years, I'm excited again.

*Not all at once, that would be insanity.

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