I will freely admit that I dislike and resent Christmas. I resent how it – and, specifically, one version of it – bulldozes over every other celebration, in almost every part of the world. I hate the consumption that surrounds it. If in the UK, where it is genuinely celebrated, the anxiety and expense around buying gifts, and then the rapaciousness with which they are opened and forgotten. The pile of rubbish that remains afterwards, from trees and decorations to wrapping paper to piles of food that no one particularly wants to eat and much of which goes into the compost. I really dislike the usual food too: the turkey, the bread sauce, the gravy and stuffing. Repellent stuff, most of it. Generally Christmas is distinguished by sensory overload, woith the food the sole exception. The good points are the panettone, the roast potatoes and the smoked salmon, which are all standard fare (for different meals) at the family Christmasses I attend in London.
The day itself is agony, if I am in a place where it is celebrated, as the intensity of doing things I don’t really enjoy with other people no matter how I like them, and the discomforts of sharing space with not enough bathrooms or places to hide, and a meal that lasts for hours, grows less tolerable every year. The last time I was at a family Christmas it was extra horrific for personal reasons, as I was caring for someone who died shortly after, and did all the most difficult caring duties alone whilst hiding them away from those celebrating and everyone pretended all was well in the way only the English can pull off.
So this year I carefully planned my work so that I would not be in the UK, and instead I am busy working. Nor have I heeded those here in Pakistan who have requested presents to put under the Christmas tree for their children; in such cases Christmas is not about faith or even about family and friends, but solely a celebration of consumption.
I really dislike and resent Christmas.