We had a bit more of a rest day yesterday and it certainly brightened my spirits, so that was nice. Scrooge standing invisibly in the corner as the Cratchits make the most of a splendid goose, the Ghost of Christmas Present sprinkling his torch over the scene, and me at the table with sellotape, scissors, and scraps of wrapping paper, the end of an assembly line that began on the floor with Sammy, cross-legged on a blanket, in a circle of unwrapped presents.
It was my job to write the labels too. It did feel a bit more like it - the business-end of the Christmas prep. Twinkly lights, Christmas tree, Cliff warbling for the hundredth year in a row. I was less grey than I have been recently.
There’s something lovely about not having much choice - at least, there should be. The Cratchits are presented as having an uproarious time on very little of it. Choice is a luxury, of course it is, but it occurs to me that not having it is also pretty great, if you’re prepared to make the most of it, and if you don’t compare yourself with others.
This is not easy. At some point over Christmas, someone will bring out a wheel of melted Camembert and I will need to put that secret of contentment into practice.
Speaking of contentment, my wrapping leaves a lot to be desired. The bits that made their way up to my table for folding and sellotaping left my table looking unusual. I’m not going to be featuring in any of those perfect instagram reels any time soon.
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