It’s Christmas morning and the tree is adorned with coloured lights and decorations. The breakfast table is set with Panettone and tea, and oysters sit at the sink in preparation for lunch. We are back in the French countryside with my in-laws, settling into what is likely to be the last Christmas in rural France, as my in-laws are soon to be down-sizing and giving up the idyllic life in their rustic farmhouse of over 20 years.
But something is rather off.
This year, Father Christmas has not arrived and there is only one present each for the children beneath the tree from the grandparents. Lil Bro is wearing Granny’s old t-shirt unadorned with trousers or the like, above which he is wearing great granny’s cardigan such that the sleeves overwhelm his arms in the manner of a vampire bat. The look is evermore preposterous as he is intent on running around flapping his sleeves so that they whip his back in the manner of self-flagellation. His bare skinny legs protrude beneath, drawing attention due to their perpetual motion. Big Sis sits curled-up cat-like in a nightie of unknown provenance that comes down to her ankles, on the lap of her father who is sporting a pair of flowery shorts from his adolescence.
This year, I have felt moved by the plight of Syrian refugees, sick children, evils of capitalist excess and humans as the cause of climate change that we have embarked on a sinless Christmas where we reject commercialism and think about the true meaning of Christmas. As such, there will be no presents, no decadent wrapping paper and Santa Claus will not call. We have chosen to think of those less fortunate than ourselves and donate all the children’s presents to charity.
Don’t be daft! I’m a shrink not a saint!
Rather, let me fill you in on the ridiculous antics of the night before. Having spent days meticulously ordering gifts from Amazon, and further more days sitting at home to try and receive said ordered gifts from Amazon, and further days puzzle-piecing boxes and boxes of gifts into big black suitcases, and coaxing Big Sis to help reassure Lil Bro that Santa is very clever and will find us in France (Big Sis has figured out about Santa – but that’s another story); we were finally set and ready to go.
Bundled off we went with 3 large laden cases full of paraphernalia, eyes bright in anticipation for a calm and restful Christmas and a short sojourn of skiing thereafter. Because of the mass of our present haul and the multitude of “essential skiing gear”, I whittled down my own belongings to a small wheelie case, pathetic amongst the other large ones. Little had we anticipated the disaster encountered at London Bridge when 2 trains to Gatwick were cancelled. Never fear, Uber is here. A cab was called and disaster was averted by a knight in shining Mercedes that pulled up some 8 minutes later.
The children and I crammed into the back seat and promptly fell asleep after the excitement of the morning’s rush to head off, but some 40 minutes later I was rudely awakened by Banker’s woeful tone “I think we are going to miss our flight”. Then it was tender hooks for the remainder of the journey. The Uber-man remained optimistic to the last, but my pessimistic nature understood that we were doomed. Never-the-less, we took the chance that given we had checked in on-line that there was a slither of a chance.
The dash to the luggage drop off point was in vain, even after having nearly knocked several people sideways with the big, heavy case.
The baggage drop-off point was closed.
The gate to boarding would close in minutes.
The next flight out from Gatwick would be boxing-day.
Banker and I looked at each other. In a split second we both understood that Christmas was about family and not presents. We dumped the big bags at left luggage, not even stopping to give details of who we were or where we lived. The attendant seemed to understand, put a barcode in our hands with a telephone number hastily scribbled on the back, shouting to us as we fled “Run! Don’t worry about your bags! Just call!”
Banker, with marathon and triathalon training was sent as the forward party, without a look back he leapt over obstacles and weaved his way to Gate 20. I followed as fast as I could encumbered by my backpack and case, the only case deemed small enough for hand luggage, shouting encouragement to two children who trailed behind. They made a good start, having sensed the dire nature of the situation. Lil Bro, who had killed the Reception sprint at his last sport’s day made good ground. Big Sis who had participated enthusiastically in the Borough Cross Country continued apace. But believe me when I say that Gate 20 was a LONG way from the security gates. At Gate 4, when the computer screens heralded that boarding at Gate 20 was CLOSED, I wondered if my legs could make it. Behind me, I heard crying as Lil Bro succumbed to the enormity of the task. I went back and grasped his hand. Banker was nowhere to be seen.
I pulled Lil Bro by the hand propelling him forward. “Lil Bro”, I said, “We are tired, but now we can press our “Booster Pack” buttons and set off our reserve fuel. The Gate is closed, we have to run or there is no chance”. We plundered on, shouting and waving to poor Big Sis each time we turned a corner so she did not get lost as she was ten metres behind.
Eventually, we got to Gate 20 where Banker had made them hold the gate open. Sweating like a pig and with two crying children in tow, bereft of worldly possessions, we boarded the flight. On the plane, Big Sis and I started to muse to Lil Bro about the possibility that Santa may not be so smart after all, and had he left Santa a note to tell him we would be in France? Because if he hadn’t then Santa may deliver the presents to London and there would be no presents until we were back in London, but not to worry as they would be waiting safely there….
For all that people say about the cynicism and materialism of children and their obsession with more and more toys and presents at Christmas, and the frenzy-like states that parents get into to prepare for a Magical Nigella-esque Christmas “for the children”, I can attest that the half-naked children swathed in foraged clothes made not one complaint and had a perfectly splendid Christmas in the company of their grandparents. For all our doubts, even 21st century children can understand that Christmas is about family, not presents.
As for me, I was thankful that I had packed the 5 disc-collectors’ edition of Anne of Green Gables (a nostalgic Christmas present to myself) into my own tiny case. At least I alone am fully clothed and will be having a merry Christmas introducing Big Sis to Gilbert Blythe…
Tomorrow we hit Decathalon’s ski section with gusto!
I hope you had a Merry Christmas without our mistakes!