It's Just a Stage

I have just walked into a room to find my mother hunched over, stationary and determinedly swinging her arms.

In the full knowledge that I would regret it, I asked what she was doing. “Skiing,” she replied. “It’s awfully diverting – want to race?”

Bless her, but I think she’s having Christmas-pangs. My father and I are awfully grinch-y about Ye Olde Christmassy Spirit, you see, and I reckon it’s getting her down. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for the festive food, but I think our Christmas impersonation of a damp squib is sort of smothering the gleeful part of her that would rather like to dress the house in twenty varieties of tinsel and organise a carefully laid-out feast in front of our fireplace (used roughly once in my adult memory and not at all for admitting foreign visitors with big sacks, though frankly the future odds are reasonably high on that front).

Anyway, so dad and I’s resoundingly grumpy “Nothing!” to her earlier question of what decorations we thought should go up this year must have hit harder than I thought. The signs were there. I should have twigged when she called us to have a look at her latest spam of ”Two Hundred Virtually Similar Yet Subtly Different Worldwide Variations on Christmas Trees in Major European Cities” or somesuch. Certainly, the light should have gone on when she waxed lyrical about finding – and baking - a “vintage” Christmas pudding from last year (“It just needs a touch of brandy!”).

But skiing?

Actually, my concerns about her worrying display of festive cheer seem premature. She has just come in to tell me it’s time I “Piste off and went to bed in my own chalet.”

Ah, nothing like a good, bracing blast of icy air to blow away that sentimentality. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.