At random moments I feel guilty about Christmas. In the supermarket I’m buying my usual bread and broccoli and deciding to treat myself to the world’s smallest panettone and a mini bottle of bubbles, while all around me people are loading up their trolleys with enough wine to last me till 2025 and hams the size of a small child. Their stress levels seem enormous: the food, the parties, the kids, the presents, the entertaining.
I feel guilty because I sail through with barely a ripple to my routine. I bought myself a couple of presents and a couple for friends and for dad, and I’ll buy a few treats at the supermarket with my weekly shop, but that’s about the extent of my preparation.
I need not feel guilty, of course. It’s silly. Plenty of people love the hustle and bustle and can think of nothing more enjoyable than spending their day decorating, putting on a feast and feeding the 5000 over the course of a day.
Me, I love not doing that. A day to myself with nothing more pressing to do than read a book is my preference. I’ll be celebrating in my own quiet way.