HAPPY CHRISTMAS
Happy Christmas, to whom it may concern. Regardless, that’s what I will be barely celebrating. I come to you from my living room, stirring my cup of decaf coffee with a chocolate orange stick, whilst Christmas jazz plays in the background in an attempt to get in the spirit. I count three decorations vaguely related to Christmas around me at the moment, and honestly I prefer it that way. It seems like the world has plenty of holiday cheer for me to siphon whenever I leave the flat. Not that I’m particularly inclined to do so. The weather’s gotten to the point where phone calls made outside last approximately a minute and a half before my hands have to escape the open air back into my barely warmer pockets. This issue could be solved by wearing headphones, but if there’s one thing I’m tired of hearing it’s “I can barely hear you, what are you saying?” This is usually followed by an infuriated ripping out of at least one headphone, and an aggressive handling of my cellphone as it makes its way to my perturbed face. An exasperated “How about now?” leaves my lips as I send an angry thought in the direction of Samsung for making headphones that only my father and brother seem to be able to clearly talk to me through.
The snow has hit Denmark in December for the first time in years. Do not take my word for that though. I’m sure I was caught in a snowstorm last year but I can’t for the life of me remember when. I only remember having to wee and all the buses passing me neglecting to pick me up. I suppose here’s another unintentional slap in the general direction of the Danish transport system. Happy Christmas, cunts.
With said snow hitting the streets, Christmas eve is slowly approaching. From around the corner of an alleyway it limps forward, a self satisfied smile on its face, like so many smug waiters ready to berate you with their terrifying rendition of Happy Birthday.
I usually work on Christmas Eve. I have a short shift from three to five which means I can waltz from work directly to the Christmas roast. My usual practice has expired since we started celebrating Christmas with my mothers uncle. The first year of this new arrangement, I was picked up from work at five, had a thirty minute car drive, sat in the living room with a drink for a further forty-five minutes, only to see my mum's uncle strut flamboyantly through the living room with a raw roast. Stomach rumbling and only a sad array of crisps to speak of, the wait was excruciating. I don’t remember the exact time we sat down for dinner, but I do remember getting up from the couch a little more dizzy than usual, my facehole watering with anticipation.
Good gravy and roast duck can make up for several things, and worth the wait it definitely was. A, in no way rushed, clearing of the christmas table ensued while I enjoyed my after dinner smoke in the cold air outside, crunchy grass beneath my feet. I was on the phone with my partner who’s evening was moving at a more rapid pace, as they had got to the pudding and had already opened presents and such. I thanked my partner and their parents in advance for the mystery gifts surely locked behind several hours more to come.
As I made my way inside my suspicion was indeed confirmed. We’d gotten to the present part of the evening, just as I received a text from my partner saying they’d made it home to the flat. Not only was it a one gift at a time sort of ordeal, but there was also a child of barely a year old who was also included in this arrangement. The last present was opened, the wrapping tossed, and pudding was served at a quarter past one at night. At this point, I think I’d had enough Christmas to last me a lifetime, but foolish me had forgotten a crucial part of the evening.
Pakkeleg.
This Danish practice is usually saved for Christmas lunches with colleagues, extended family and other people you’d rather not have to see more than necessary. It involves bringing shit gifts that cost nothing and nobody actually wants. Some examples would be a toilet roll with Christmas motives that will surely feel like sandpaper if actually used. Maybe some cheap playing cards that’ll be forgot on the dinner table after a cheap card trick or two, or the most liked one - snacks. Everyone brings said gifts and you then roll a dice to see if you get a present and in the later stages of the game, you steal gifts from one another on a timer that only one person knows. It sounds a lot more complicated than it actually is but I believe it is probably just as fun as it sounds. It’s a game that can be quite fun accompanied by alcohol, but I'd rather not be drunk in the company of my family if I can help it.
Regardless, this game is played at my mum’s uncle’s house on Christmas eve and so therefore we partake. I believe that year I bought a foldable walking cane and a wooden placemat with the motif of a horse called Eleanor. I think my brother still has that one, actually.
The lovely but long winded evening came to a close as my mum dropped me off at my flat. I looked at the time and it was two thirty in the morning. With a bag of generous gifts, I crawled up the stairs, assumingly waking every person in our complex with loud exasperated breaths and stumbled into the flat. A cigarette or so later I was asleep, ready for whatever other Christmas traditions were in store for the following days.
As 2022 comes to a close, I’d like to thank the lot of you that have been reading along. Even if this is a place of procrastination for my tired brain, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed getting all these thoughts out of my head. In the new year I’m sure I’ll have some new years stories to tell, like the time I saw some real lads try to shoot fireworks from between their friend’s bum cheeks.
Happy, or Merry or what ever the fuck holidays to you lot. Hope you get home before midnight.
