It’s a gloomy sort of a day, like the morning after a particularly good party, I suppose (although I’ve experienced precious few of those…), when all of the anticipation has gone and all there is left is the prospect of clearing up all of the mess to look forward to, and the kicking to the kerb of any unwanted interlopers, and the removal of all those fag-ends from the last few dregs in the bottom of so many bizarrely located wine glasses.
Meanwhile, all of the leftovers, the rubbish, the tidying up and the washing up all sit staring at you, daring to goad you into action when only inaction really seems to be what you feel capable of. All of a sudden the long days of summer sunshine that the celebration of the solstice seemed to promise you of seem a very, very long way away, and between you and those lazy, hazy days lies a wodge of seemingly endless dark and gloomy days, and hard work to pay for whatever “fun” you managed to eke out of the day before.
Then, of course, you realise that the dubious delights of Boxing Day itself still lie before you; All of those family commitments, now exposed and without the salve of the prospect of gift-giving to relieve the pressure and lighten the mood, or prevent all of those potential tiny explosions from actually mushrooming into another hysterical Hiroshima. Another day of fixed grins and artificial levity and the continuing pretense that these people with whom you share the most DNA are precisely the people you would prefer not to actually spend any real time with.
Or is that just me, then…?
All of those bizarre notions of “duty”, “loyalty” or “love” (delete as applicable) that can come a-knocking at your door just because it’s what you’re “supposed” or “expected” to do at this season of the year. All of that desperation not to “disappoint” or “let someone down” or “totally ruin their Christmas” as they quaff one too many cans of lager, or sips of sherry and let their guard down and tell you what they really think of you now that you’ve got the big day out of the way.
You know.
The important day. The one when everyone tries really hard to be on their best behaviour and not be the one to “spoil everything” or not let everyone have the Christmas Day they deserve or expect, the fixed grins across the dinner table, the daggers sheathed for the duration and all the petty battles not exactly forgotten, but certainly not talked about.
Well, not unless Uncle Frank had one too many whiskies and forgot where and when he was and mentioned the great unmentionable, said the great unsaid, and one of the several elephants in the room that are all suddenly trumpeting for all they’re worth is unleashed and doing a balancing act on the bowl of brandy butter that simply refuses to be ignored any more.
Boxing Day should, of course, be the calm after the storm, a golden moment to reflect and relax and enjoy flicking through the pages of those gifts you so gracefully and gratefully received was it really only the day before? A day for unpacking those undiscovered delights from their impossible packaging and reading through the tiny text of those instruction books written in so many languages, some of which even resemble your own. A day for popping new old movies into the player or watching the shows you recorded because no-one could be bothered with finding the energy for sitting through them the day before.
But instead, the mighty festive treadmill rolls on, the chaos and commitment continues and all of that “Peace on Earth” that you have actually heard about but have so rarely experienced that you have truly started to believe that it’s about as real as UFOs or the Loch Ness Monster becomes something that only someone else gets to enjoy, whilst your own day of rest explodes into madness again.
Yes - best just stay in, lock the door and say nothing on Boxing day Martin.
ReplyDelete