Navigating the Comedy of Christmas Chaos

I’ve got no whimsy left. Not even on a Friday. Christmas shenanigans have taken it all. I feel the big day racing towards me like a Ferrari and I’m having to jump over boodles of boulders in order to stay in the game. Is it supposed to feel like this? I can’t remember it being this stressful. 

I really don’t have time to post (yeah, we noticed Jules, very lackadaisical TBH) Alright, alright! It’s not like you didn’t know I’m consistently inconsistent! Sheesh! Here I am, jumping off the speed train, stopping certain readers from getting BWS (Blog Withdrawal Syndrome) Apparently it’s a thing and now listed in medical journals, widely known to cause mental health issues. I can’t possibly have that on my conscience during the festive season! 

Good Gwreath!

I probably could have saved some time by not making my own wreath for the front door, middle door, and inner door.  However, I wouldn’t then be able to boast every time I let someone in and smugly turn to my creation saying, “I made that!”  And if you don’t display a face full of wonder and astonishment you will not be coming in for long and the hot mince pies with clotted cream will NOT be served to you. 

At one point I contemplated making a wreath for my demise for when I dropped down right there on the oak floor in utter exhaustion. I could have made myself a beautiful and classy arrangement with a poem attached,

 Here she lies done and dusted,

Brought down to her knobbly knees,

All her gutsy guts been busted, 

With relentless Christmas please.

Put some lights on that, twinkle toes. Bahhh.

Talking of Lights…

“Let’s put lights on the house!”

“No. We have them on the cherry tree. Simple and classy.” 

So, the extra lights that were found in the Christmas box went on the front of the house running out 3 feet from the gable end.

“Do you think anyone will notice that?”

“Nah. They’ll probably just think we’re blazing a trail a metre short of genius. Innovative!“

When I went to bed that night and turned off my light ready for a much needed slumber, I wondered why there was a nuclear glow outside the window that was even brighter than daytime!

Oh Goody!

 And then the tapping started.  These lights dangled, you see. They dangled just enough that when the wind blew they rattled on all 5 of my bay windows all through the night like Wee Willie Winkie. 

“Right, that’s it. The lights are coming down.”

The Holly Bears The Crown

A new tradition got introduced this year. Because of course, let’s add something else to the never-ending list. I say new tradition because the end result looked marvellous and will therefore be forever engraved into the memories of Christmas makers who will insist on it being carried out every year until you die. 

Foraging. This is a new thing considered to be –

A: Good for you.  Allowing you to mentally de-stress as you wander and gather in a natural environment.

Please find me the person who said that because it ain’t someone making wreaths, putting up trees, wrapping presents, writing cards, making butters, screaming themselves awake at 3 AM because they forgot to do normal things now that Christmas has sashayed in the door like a diva-esque monster. 

and,

B:  You can have stunning  natural greenery in your home that makes enviable decorations.  Along with nasty little bugs that you didn’t notice at the time and only see when they bite you or run all over your dining room table making you jump and spill red hot tea all over your fresh clothes in the laundry basket. Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-LA.

On the one and only day that this event could happen due to work commitments, it absolutely hammered it down with festive rain.  I drove myself and a family member, which we will refer to as Thing 2, off to Gravelly Hollow where The Fysigunkus lives, complete with gloves, secateurs, and a bright orange Taste The Difference Sainsbury’s bag. That won’t be conspicuous. 

Off we marched gently ambled up the gravelly path as the rain pelted down with hell fury missled like a reverie in grey. Fifteen minutes later I discovered that the expensive sleeping bag coat I bought last year to go to Iceland in wasn’t waterproof.  But that’s OK because after half an hour of freezing my arse off it started to act like a wetsuit. 

“Where have all the pine trees gone?” said Thing 2. 

“God knows. Maybe we’re misremembering. Normally I walk the dogs here, not forage. Shall we just make mushroom soup?”

“No!”

Halfway through this particular walk you veer off into the woods and come to a gorgeous nature reserve. Now, nature reserves in England are prized and protected areas of outstanding natural beauty where ancient plants grow, wild birds feed, and Snow White animals prosper. Of course, right where this started there was an abundance of holly, mistletoe, wild berries, ivy and everything (except fir trees) one needed for seasonal greenery.

“Hmm, not sure we can snip a thing round here,” I said

“What shall we do? That holly looks lovely…”

“Right, if anyone comes along, just go along with what I say. Pretend we’re conservationists.” 

As it happened, the holly was the other side of the wire fence that protected the reserve so technically it wasn’t illegal. I was the one chosen to get myself into the thick of it all and tread where no man has ever trodden before. 

“Is that fence electric?” I asked

“I dunno…”

“Well touch it and see.”

“No, YOU touch it.”

“NO! I’m not getting electrocuted and ripped to shreds by holly! You take one for the team!”

As I snipped at the beautiful tree the dog walkers popped up in their Barbour jackets with well-behaved gun dogs at their heels.  They looked me up and down with disdain as I savaged nature in my giant wet sleeping bag with my huge orange bag. 

Why are vagrants now foraging?

“Right, err, Miss Pickleton. As you can see I’m cutting this stem right here which will allow for new growth next year. Also this specimen will be ideal for replanting in our air purifying tree nursery – please place it safely in our ECO FRIENDLY BAG!”

Shortly after leaning too far to get the reddest berries from the tree, I got tangled in a rather nasty bramble. 

“The bracken has lassoed my ankles. I’m like a calf at Rodeo. ARRRRRR. GET ROUND HERE AND BLOODY HELP ME! Damn that hurt! I think I might cry…”

With a bag full of soaking wet greenery, flat hair and torn skin, we made it back to the car park where other righteous walkers and cyclists looked upon us in disbelief. At this point I didn’t care. Not a jot. Fortunately for me, a bedraggled, bleeding, drenched woman with attitude, who can’t afford a waterproof coat, driving a pick-up truck with a pirate flag, isn’t the sort of person the usual Brit wants to pick a row with. And off we went with our swag and booty kicking up grit and grief from the back tyres. 

Getting Strung Along

But that wasn’t the end of it. Having thought I’d done my good deed for the day, I was ready to commence my outstanding workload, but no. 

Now the greenery had to be put out to dry all over the table. 

Oranges had to be sliced, dried and baked in the oven.

String had to be tied so that rustic arrangements could be made to drape from the bannister, pictures, fireplaces, and candlesticks.  Cottage style loveliness begged to be shaped and constructed day after day so that Elton John’s “Step Into Christmas” came alive chez moi.

And no, the admission is not free, it’s a costly bottle of wine, Baileys Irish cream, plasters for my fingers, a massage voucher, and a trip to somewhere hot and sunny.