Shropshire Woman

Jackie Jarvis writes

WARNING: The following may offend, so Christmas aficionados look away now.

At this time of year when the whole world appears to be happily humming along to Jingle Bells and adorning anything that doesn’t move in glittery tinsel and gaudy baubles, I, like the grumpy old woman that I am, become positively maudlin.

My Scrooge-like aversion to this season of goodwill to all men has been perfected over many years.

And I think its origins lie in the simple fact that I was delivered kicking and screaming into the world but a few days before the Great One’s birth day.

As a child I can remember feeling thoroughly fed up by the unfairness of the fickle finger of fate which had predestined I should be a ‘Christmas baby’.

My main gripe centred on the giving, or should I say, the receiving of gifts. In that department I was well and truly short-changed.

If I got a present on my birthday it came with that dreadful proviso no child should ever have to hear: “That’s your Christmas present as well.”

No wonder then that my bad humour at this time has escalated to new heights over the decades.

It’s been depressing enough coming to terms with my advancing years at a time when everyone else seems to be so positive and in such high spirits, but the unkindest cut of all is that the birthday cards have now dried up.

Everyone is so hell-bent on getting their heartfelt Christmas messages out to friends and loved ones that acknowledging the mere date of someone’s birth gets cast aside in the season’s melée to catch the last post, order a turkey with all the trimmings which will easily feed the five thousand for months, buy the tallest tree in the forest, dress it up like a dog’s dinner, only to have it ungratefully shed its needles over the carpet for the next two weeks.

And then there’s the dreaded day itself. If the build up to this yearly event was not exhausting enough, there’s 48 tortuous hours of unbridled gluttony and sluggish inactivity to get through; all in the company of those ‘nearest and dearest’ with whom you feel a duty to spend time. Bah, humbug!

Seriously though, the real meaning of Christmas and what it stands for in the Christian calendar appears to have been completely overlooked in this age of rampant consumerism where we blindly get swept along by the seasonal shopping silliness, happily prostrating ourselves at the altar of the great god ‘Money’, when what we should really be doing is worshipping the King of Kings.

The majority of us are guilty as charged when it comes to parting with more than we can afford on all those little festive ‘essentials’.

Perhaps this difficult period of recession is the perfect time for us all to get back to basics and rein in our frenzied festive spending habits, turning our back on the cynical commercialism that can so easily turn into an obsession our purses could well do without.

I am a firm believer in the old adage that it’s the thought that counts. A small gift, chosen with care, can mean more to the recipient than something a hundred times more expensive.

I remember the day when a stocking filled with an orange, a handful of walnuts and a yummie chocolate coin or two was guaranteed to bring a smile to any child’s face. How times have changed!