GATHERING WINTER FUEL

I don’t know how to process anything at the moment. I appreciate that this is unusual, but this time, as hard as I try, I simply don’t have the words through which to filter my thoughts, feelings or heart.

So, failing that, I’m in Pret A Manger, and I am certainly ‘pret’ for ‘mange-ing’ a toasted ham and mustard sandwich. I’m also Christmas shopping. Halfway there, anyway.

I wonder what Christmas would be like without the present pressure. If we all stopped exchanging gifts, but kept everything else, what would happen? I’m asking because it’s the one thing about Christmas, I actually could do without.

I know, I talk about this every year, but it is still true, every year: I’m terrible at finding presents for people. And I don’t enjoy being so poor at it.

The tradition is though, wholly intertwined with Christmas itself. The Wise Men started it, Santa, like a little green imp, sprang out of it, and every capitalist institution on the planet has jumped on the back of it.

Exchanging presents as a demonstration of love and goodwill to our nearests and dearests is the fuel of the season, and without it, the whole thing would be no more than a cut-down Easter, a few days off for ultra-religious people in the bleak midwinter. Unfortunately.

And so for that reason, I’m in town, carrier bags digging into my fingers, rain splashing playfully from my hood in time with the soggy brass sound of the Salvation Army.

There’s too much mustard in this sandwich. It’s supposed to enhance the flavour of the ham, not replace it altogether.

You shouldn’t misunderstand me by the way. I love the people on my list, and I will push through the rain and the online clicks and the crowds in Boots and Debenhams and Waterstones. They will have gifts from me, and those gifts will be thoughtfully chosen. It will probably have taken a lot longer than they contemplated, but it will be done - and no, not just because of the tradition, the fuel, the pressure, but because I like them enough to make their day with a little smile and a sparkle of love on Christmas morning.

I like to think that without this tradition, we’d all do it anyway. As I realised, it’s a much better truth to realise that your family love you, rather than some chimney-stuffing old stranger. And in any case, the gold, the frankincense and the myrrh were symbols, tokens of a much greater truth, hidden behind their value.

And I like to think that those truths are what it’s really about, all this trek through queues and hot shops and awful music.

Maybe I can process a few thoughts then. Every shelf reminds me of the Niblings, the Intrepids, the Avengers (we’re doing secret-santa this year), Winners, Teebs, Paul and Heather, and the wonderful cavalcade of other lovely, beautiful people in my life.

That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’m gathering winter fuel in the deep and crisp and even footprints of the King.