One Christmas Eve, aged around ten, I heard some odd shuffling noises coming from the landing. Tucked up in bed I decided to investigate, but I had to be cunning since my parents had given me a clear directive: “If you don’t go to sleep Father Christmas won’t come!”
Lifting myself gingerly onto the chest of drawers I managed to have a gander through the window above my door, or as I have since discovered, it is called a transom. In that precise moment the spirit of Christmas evaporated, as I clearly saw my dad inching his way down the staircase with my new bike. The fat, bearded one in a red and white jumpsuit was just an illusion. But on the other hand, the presents were real!
Scrooge lives – but Father Christmas prevails
So, for the next few years I perpetuated the illusion, especially as there was no charge on my side. Then there came a trigger point, I guess when I started to receive pocket money, when I had to start putting my hand in my skyrocket, learning the depressing fact that money received often lasted a very short time in my possession.
As a parent I repeated the duplicity with my children and so the cycle of consumerism continued. My kids, Lucy and Adam (now respectively 34 and 31), may not have seen me struggling with two new bikes, but they are both now acutely aware that the clause relevant to Santa Claus is: “This nonsense is for kids!”
My Scrooge status has seen a significant surge in the last few years, but a recent exchange with the younger of the brood finally tipped me over the edge. After years of ridicule over my choice of supposedly rubbish Christmas presents – who wouldn’t be touched by receiving, amongst other gems, a huge plastic Arsenal gnome (holding a flag), and the ever-present ginormous size box of Jaffa Cakes – I decided to call a truce.
Presents – it’s the thought that counts
My suggestion that we don’t buy each other any presents, simply because we are in the privileged position to purchase pretty much anything we want under the usual festive benchmark of a hundred pounds, was met with derision! My son wanted to continue this facade of the exchange of junk, wrapped in glitzy paper, with a cumulative equivalence in cost.
Trudging around my all-time favourite tat shops I finally snapped. Surrounded by elegant detritus, I was encouraged to recall the quote that epitomises Christmas cheer: “It’s the thought that counts.” Personally, I prefer the similar, albeit lesser-known line, uttered by Jack Nicholson: “What’s beautiful is all that counts, pal. That’s ALL that counts.”
Consequently, this Christmas, son, you are getting this photograph framed, and I’m keeping the other £98, saving you the same!
Merry Christmas!
Bah humbug!
This article was first published on Ian Kirke’s blog. Read the original article.
