It seemed that morphing into the bride from hell was as bad as it could get. But now Christmas is only around the corner I have turned into my annual incarnation of a rather manic and scary cross between Martha Stewart and Doris Day.
I love Christmas. I mean I really love it and treat the run up to it with a dizzying zeal and fervour. No matter where I am in the world, I manage to convince myself that I am in the real life version of Bedford Falls or can half imagine Bing Crosby popping up somewhere singing ‘White Christmas’. As soon as November arrives I’ve opened all my boxes of Christmas decorations and fairy lights and am gazing at them wistfully, picturing them in situ and am tragically scouring cookery books looking for perfect Christmas recipes. As soon as the first batch of Christmas trees are on display at Eleftheria Square I’m one of the first ones there, meticulously examining each tree looking for the perfect specimen, desperate to rush home to decorate it whilst a CD of Chrismas carols plays in the background.
And then there’s the presents. Despite telling myself every year that I am never ever going to attempt to make my own gifts again, I never ever seem to learn. By mid November I start to plan the long list of elaborately ambitious projects, forgetting all the previous years’ misery and also seemingly oblivious to the fact that I only have four weeks to knit three jumpers, two scarves, a couple of cushions and a bag.
Poor Lovely Boyfriend. I think he’s starting to miss Bridezilla. Wedding plans are currently on hold and instead, my frenzied Christmas activity has now begun. On my days off, whilst he’s at work I am busy at home doing all my Christmassy stuff imagining him coming home to a scene of domestic bliss straight from a Frank Capra movie; the scent of freshly baked pepper cookies wafting in the air as I sit crafting my masterpieces in the living room looking the picture of serenity whilst surrounded by baskets of kittens.
In reality he has been coming home to the acrid stench of burnt biscuits, skeins of wool everywhere and a rather hysterical girlfriend ranting about the ‘bloody cats’ who seem to think that grabbing my knitting and running around the garden with it is quite the best fun ever. In between me sobbing about having to start all over again from scratch and threatening all sorts of horrible feline atrocities, he has been managing a very convincing display of concern but I have noticed he does seem to be going out rather more than usual these days. Something I am unable to do. Any ounce of street cred I may have once had is now completely out the window as when I’m invited to a party or night out I either have to decline under the pretext of having ‘too much knitting to do’ or else have an abstemious night and slope off early to resume my knit one purl one until the wee hours of the morning.
By the time Christmas Day comes I will be utterly exhausted and whilst holding my glass of mulled wine with bandaged fingers shall catch glimpses of the fleeting looks of disappointment that cross the faces of my friends and family as they unwrap yet another well-intentioned but somewhat overly ambitious handmade gift that they’ll have to wear/carry/put on a chair at least once to please me. It will then dawn on me that their pleas of ‘don’t even think of going to all that trouble to make our presents this year. Just buy us something and make sure you go out and enjoy yourself over the festive period’ had less to do with genuine concern for my Christmas socialising and more to do with the burgeoning pile of over-sized jumpers, odd-shaped cushion covers and violently coloured scarves that are sitting gathering dust in a cupboard. I will then promise myself that next year I will steer well clear of the wool shop, limit my craft making activity to the odd card or two, buy presents that people actually want and accept any and every invitation out with great gusto.
But then November will come and I will have forgotten all about my good intentions and once again my head will be filled with James Stewart, knitting patterns and chestnuts roasting on an open fire…
