The magic of Christmas

I have been saying that ‘I don’t do Christmas’ for some time now. I was first inspired by a friend who had me perplexed some 15 years ago, when I was invited to her home for Xmas and she opened Christmas cards and displayed them on her mantlepiece whilst commenting to me that she did not send cards to people.

I was baffled, shocked even, I asked how could you not? I was still in that mode of trawling through the address book and sending cards to all and sundry. So of course, I simply could not comprehend her stance on this ritual, that I myself had never questioned, along with buying presents for many, and getting the tree up and decorated and shopping till I dropped.  

I recall one year, I had decorated my tree and my sister informed me that trees had Themes. I had been using the same baubles and tinsel each year and added to them if I saw something new that I liked.  I drew the line right there. I was not going to throw out my hoard of Christmas decorations to get in line with Themes. I could feel a shift occurring in me.

I am not exactly sure when my position took a firm change, but eventually I started to feel ground down by the lack of reciprocity amongst family. I started to volunteer with homeless charities at Christmas time.  I started to go abroad to escape it all.  Life changing events and children reaching adulthood also had a significant impact on my declaration of ‘not doing Xmas’ anymore.

I guess I simply do Xmas differently now, as I am no longer caught up in the commercialisation of Xmas. I do not do frenzied shopping. Exchanging gifts with adults ‘just because’ does not make sense to me at all now either. I no longer run away. 

However, this year I can’t escape the magic of Christmas for children, I have started to view Christmas through the experience of a child drawing on my own wonders of anticipation, excitement and delight, and as a mum, being able to create that same joy for our child when he discovered what Santa had left for him ;-). Those memories are priceless.  

Christmas is indeed a magical time, but most of all, a time to reaffirm our love for humanity and celebration of the religious significance; a time for sharing with others; joyous laughter, Peace on Earth and Goodwill to all. I am so looking forward to New Years’ Eve as that is a significant time for me. That period in between Xmas and New Year is when I create my Vision Board and set my intentions for the coming year. Last year’s Vision Board was about emotional resilience and learning to practice intentionally more self-love and care. Now to plan for 2018!!

Happy to New Year to All!!

Mrs Oblomov by Andrew Shephard

How did I meet him? Through a dating site. His profile stood out because of its honesty. Instead of bigging himself up like most men he admitted to a long list of faults without a hint of shame. True to his claim of unreliability, he failed to show at Pizza Express at the agreed time.

Usually I would have glugged down my wine, dismissed him as a tosser and slunk off home dispirited. But I didn’t want to let it go. There was a tantalising familiarity about his picture. I was sure I had met him before and I needed to know where. A few taps and swipes on my phone later I had a mobile number for him. I ordered a second glass of wine and sent him a cheeky text asking how long he would be and did he want me to order for him. I tapped the table with my sparkly nails waiting for a ping of acknowledgement. Half a glass of wine later my phone was still as silent as a church mouse.

I was about to press the phone sign and give him a piece of my mind when I had a better idea. I was dressed for a date, and with an indiscreet rearrangement of the plunging neckline of my velveteen dress, took a selfie which I was sure would attract his attention. Now please don’t get the wrong idea about me. That was the first time I had sent a provocative photo to anyone, let alone to a man I was yet to meet. I run a mile when a camera is produced, even on holiday.

The moment I pressed ‘send’ I flushed with embarrassment. I drained the rest of my glass intending to march off home in a huff. But then I thought, ‘How dare he!’ and rang his number. I was going to give that inconsiderate shit a piece of my mind.

The phone rang and rang. I hung on, waiting for it go to voice mail. It rang until I wanted to throw my expensive smartphone onto the floor and crush it with a stiletto heel. The appearance of a waiter asking for a second time if I was ready to order distracted me from my phone rage. I almost cried because the waiter was looking down at me with sympathy bordering on pity. No doubt he had seen the same scenario many times. I realised my cleavage was still on maximum display and would have liked to slip under the table.

“My… colleague has been held up in traffic. I don’t think it’s worth me waiting any longer. Can I just pay for the wine?”

I was tugging up the material of my dress when my phone buzzed, flashed, and vibrated. I grabbed it from the table, accepted the call, and before the bastard could speak launched into a tirade using language I reserve for special occasions. I paused, waiting for him to defend himself with a pathetic excuse. There was a yawn and a further breathy pause before he replied.

“Sorry, I was asleep when you called. Am I supposed to be somewhere?” His deep, soporific voice matched perfectly the come-to-bed eyes of his profile picture. I asked him for his address and told him, unnecessarily, to stay where he was. And that is how I came to be Mrs Oblomov.

Time for Dressing Up

We had a rare night out this week – a pre-Christmas meal with friends.  

There is not much I could do nowadays that would cause our boys to raise their heads from their latest gaming obsessions.   But there was a time when Mummy putting on clothes that were not covered in baked beans was a source of great curiosity.

Oliver would watch me applying make-up with great interest.

“Mummy, why are you decorating your face?” he once asked.

How to explain to a three year old? To try to look less exhausted? To hide my desire to forget the whole “going out thing” and just put my pyjamas on? I can’t remember what explanation I gave, but I doubt he was satisfied with it.

Sometimes their questions would be more disconcerting. Children are painfully honest.  As I was straightening my hair, William watched with a fascinated expression. 

“Mummy, are you trying to make your hair REALLY flat?” he asked. I have to confess, “flat” was not exactly the look I was going for, but it was obviously the stand-out characteristic for this small fashion critic. 

In the days when Mummy was always to be found in jeans, or on bad days, joggers, Mummy in a skirt was always very amusing. William would point suspiciously at my tights. 

“What’s happened to your legs, Mummy?” 

“I’m wearing tights.”

“What are those?”

“Sort of very thin socks”. 

I could see him thinking, “Not very good socks. Not warm, and they don’t have pictures of Bob the Builder on them”.

Oliver particularly liked shoes as a small child.  Some of his most dramatic tantrums were over new shoes, or sandals, or wellies.  So when I dug out my heels from the back of the wardrobe, he was very excited.  

As we were getting ready to go out for my birthday, (I think it was a significant milestone), I produced a pair of high heels with a diamante strap, which I had worn on our wedding day. 

Oliver bent down to touch the sparkly stones. “These are like party shoes!” he exclaimed. 

“Well it’s sort of a party, because it’s my birthday,” I said. 

Later, as we were about to leave the house, Oliver spotted my husband’s black lace-ups.  He was outraged. 

“Why don’t you have sparkly party shoes, Daddy?” 

Good question. 

Walk into any children’s clothing department, and the space devoted to girls' clothes will be double that for the boys. Racks and racks of pink and purple skirts, dresses, and tops, with sparkly slogans, kittens, and unicorns, outshine a few drab racks of navy, and khaki, and plaid.   

There has been a lot of debate recently about gender and clothes. Certainly, this polarisation seems to have become more extreme in recent years. I am absolutely in favour of girls’ clothes being more practical, and I think gender-free clothes are a great idea.  

Equally, though, I can’t help thinking it’s a shame that boys' clothes are, well, boring. Many boys are just as interested in dressing up as girls, but as they get older they quickly pick up that this is not acceptable. Boys wear black, and grey, and khaki.  They don’t get to sparkle.

So, wouldn’t it be great if boys had more glitz and glamour, for those rare, special, occasions, when only glitz and glamour will do?

Snowflake by Annabel Howarth

Snowflake,

A miracle of creation,

Born from the heavens,

Perfect to my eyes,

When do you first wonder,

“Though in my six-sided symmetry,

I hear I am beautiful,

I hear I am perfect,

Which of us is best?”

“Who do you love the most?”

You are perfect to my eyes,

You are perfect to my soul,

Each one of you is

Loved.

You,

Whose journey began

In a frantic storm, which

Twisted and turned you,

Quick and slow, from

East to West, each move,

Shaping you,

You are perfect to my eyes.

You,

Who fell quietly,

Gently,

Softly,

In the middle of the night,

You are perfect to my eyes.

You,

who fell in a fanfare, of

Joyous children’s smiles,

And

You,

who fell hurriedly, on a

Road of treacherous ice,

You are perfect to my eyes.

You, who grew angry,

You, who just cried,

You, who laughed at inappropriate times,

You, who they called clever,

You, who they called brave,

You, they called a joker,

You, they always blamed,

You are perfect in my eyes.

There is no best way to be,

To be born, to live, to die,

Rest easy, my precious children,

You are perfect in my eyes.

The Magical Market

Thank you for inviting me to post. I enjoyed meeting you all in Huddersfield, and hope to come again soon.

For those of you I didn't meet, I'm Elizabeth Hopkinson, a fantasy and fairy tale writer from Bradford. You can read more about me at elizabethhopkinson.uk

This is a little piece I wrote for the programme of Clayton Dickensian Market, which takes place on 2nd December. It's an annual event in my home village, and it's become a bit of a tradition in recent years for me to contribute something to the programme:

      Clayton Dickensian Market. Photo from Hello Yorkshire.

The market appears like magic, once a year.

Yesterday, it was not here. Today, the cries of the vendors mingle with the sound of accordions and bagpipes, the music of the merry-go-round and the jingle of loose change. The winter air is thick with smell of mulled wine, pie ‘n’ peas, cinder toffee and roasting chestnuts. Here, the boundaries between reality and fantasy grow thin. Mrs Cratchit is selling dolls. The Snow Queen pets a dog dressed as a reindeer. Fagin passes the Town Crier a hot dog, as a bird of prey perches on a Scout’s arm.

Where did it come from? Some say from the pages of a story book. Others that it was born in the hearts of a sweet old couple, now grown together and changed into a tree in Victoria Park.

What will you buy? For those who know the right places to ask, you may come away with a box of Christmas crackers which, when pulled, release flights of phoenixes. Or a dress that transports its wearer to Bethlehem in the days of Caesar Augustus. 

Best of all is a stall you are bound to find. It is never in the same place twice, always different for each person. But waiting there is a gift made especially for you.

I wonder what it could be?

      My stall at the market on a previous occasion. Photo is my own.

A Winter Journey by Virginia Hainsworth

Engine thrumming soothingly,

absorbing  the kilometres,

as each stretch of road

is replaced by another,

snowier than the last.

Winter tyres earning their keep.

The pine forest parts before us

as if to let us through,

drawing us further north.

North into the land of the Sami,

where the days shrink.

The temperature slides, as does the sun.

Barely a car passes,

barely a sound penetrates the air.

The hours pass us by

and are left behind.

And still the frigid road.

And then the magic.

Miniature flecks in the distance amplify

and evolve into elegant reindeer.

We stop, while these soft coated, horned magicians

silently cross our path, casting their spell.

Our drive continues.

But, somehow, the images

of those majestic Nordic heroes

condense our onward journey,

and leave us bewitched.

November 2017