I’d like to take this opportunity to offer a blanket apology for my lack of participation in the festive season. Don’t get me wrong: I fucking love Christmas. I just don’t have enough hours to deal with the regular, day-to-day shit, let alone a DIY advent calendar. Oh, we’ve got one (Kmart, natch) – and an Elf on the Shelf, too (we call him Chinese Ben) – but we’re failing pretty dismally. While other imaginative (see also: fucking annoying) parents are recreating Pulp Fiction’s gimp scene with their elf at centre stage (hey, I’ve seen Pinterest), we get to 10pm, say WHAT ABOUT THE FUCKING ELF, and stick him in a teapot. Or something. And I keep forgetting to fill the advent calendar up. I had grand plans to fill each box with home-made treats, but – for the woman who forgot to make her eldest son lunch last week – that was pretty fucking optimistic.
I haven’t sent any Christmas cards, either. My mum – knowing my form – told me today not to worry about a card for her and dad, because she’s kept the one from last year. My nan said the same. And yeah, fair enough, nothing’s changed. I still wish them well, from the five of us. I think there’s still five of us. Let me do a quick head count – I may have lost one in Farmer Jack’s today.
I haven’t done a scrap of Christmas shopping, and our wardrobe’s top shelf would be looking pretty bare if it wasn’t for Paul’s fast-fingered internet shopping in his tea breaks at work.
And then, of course, there’s all the end-of-term shit to deal with. I forgot to reply to the class reps' emails about the collection for the teachers, and now I have to buy my own present and thank-you cards. Which means I’ll also have to find out what Ben’s teacher is called.
I haven’t baked. I fucking love baking. I’m what you might call a STAR BAKER, but despite my best intentions, Ben’s going to have to take pikelets from Woolies to his class party on Thursday, just like Frankie had to take McCain pizza slices last week. I could bake. I SHOULD bake. I just haven’t got time to bake – let alone make cupcakes that look like miniature santas, all squirty cream and strawberries (again, Pinterest, fuck you).
There will be no Christmas craft this year, just as there was no Christmas craft last year.
There will be no personalised calendars for family and friends.
There will be no trifle or truffles or mince pies or gingerbread houses. Unless my mum makes them. I might do Jamie’s glazed ham, but only because I fucking love ham.
There will be no cards and gifts for the children in Ben and Frankie’s respective classes.
There will be no advance wrapping. We will leave all the wrapping until Christmas Eve – which is also Ben’s birthday, which means we’ll have got all the presents muddled up, giving Ben too many on his birthday, and have to make a mad, drunken dash to Red Dot at 5pm on the 24th for stocking fillers.
There will be no tour of the Christmas lights.
There will be Christmas songs – PLENTY OF CHRISTMAS SONGS – and by songs, I obviously mean booze. We have done the Christmas booze shopping, ‘cos PRIORITIES.
Like I said, I fucking love Christmas, but I have neither the time nor the inclination to go full-on festive. Please, accept my apologies, and know that I wish you the happiest of Christmases and the most prosperous of New Years. But no candy canes from me, motherfuckers!