By

Craig Ennew

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Fifteen: Christmas in Limboland

This week : Craig wonders where to actually hang the mistletoe

This week’s post is a roundabout way of telling you that you are unlikely to get a Christmas card from us this year.

You see, we did have everything sewn up. Truth be told, we were allowing ourselves to feel a trifle smug. The moving date of the 6th of December that I dared to whisper – and thereby jinxed – seemed perfect. My wife and I would be working another week until the Christmas break and The Boy would be at his new school one more after that. This would give us the perfect opportunity to settle in and get unpacked without him bothering us. We could ensure that The Shack was cosy and Christmas-ed before we all settled into festivities. In a moment of self-satisfaction, we’d even planned to pop little ‘We’re Moving to the Coast!’ slips into each Christmas card.

risen higher than Gregg Wallace’s legal fees

But alas, dear Reader, ‘twas not to be – for the time being at least. Reasons for the delay are long-winded and tedious – they would probably reveal way more about our seller’s complicated predicament than those good people would thank me for. Suffice to say, the collective blood pressure of our anxiety-riddled estate agent, our impatient buyer and, of course, Malcolm in the Middle here has risen higher than Gregg Wallace’s legal fees.

It is with a heavy heart that I tell you that the move, the Christmas cards and the little slips inside them are all on hold. Sending out cards to everyone and then also send out the ‘We’re Moving to the Coast!’ slips in a separate batch seems frivolous. Ever pragmatic, my wife has come up with the idea of sending ‘Happy New Year’ cards instead from West Lulworth when we’re in – said slips going inside those instead. As she suggests this, I nod dumbly, secretly suspecting that the new year in question, given current speed of travel, could well be 2027.

In a previous post, I’d acknowledged that well-being gurus list moving house as being in the top three most stressful things you can go through in life. I’d suggest that not being able to move house when you’ve been expecting to, could also be up there. It’s like finding yourself in a perpetual Departure lounge or being in a never-ending queue for meatballs at the restaurant in IKEA (that lovely little sauce they do…).

We have since found that sitting in a half-packed house with no moving date and all the pictures off the walls is not conducive to the festive spirit. Where most other people’s houses are getting all Yuled-Up, ours takes on the vibe of an Eastern European sorting office during a postal strike. No point decorating. No point putting a tree up. Hark! Is that the sound of sleighbells you hear in the distance? No – it’s Jacob Marley here, rattling his chains of doom.

Subsequently, Grinch-like, I find myself getting irritated by the slightest thing. When I tell my wife this, she asks how she’s supposed to tell the difference. So I start with Amazon Christmas Wish Lists. Does anyone else find this exercise in self-indulgence and apathy bloody rude? It’s the adult version of a letter to Santa with all the cute drawings and any trace of sentimentality stripped away. Basically, every Christmas present you’ve given me in the past has sucked, so I’m choosing them myself. I’ve made you a list of all the things that I covet but am not prepared to pay for. You’ll notice that the lowest-priced item is pitched slightly above what you’d normally spend on me. This is quite deliberate: if you have any conscience, you won’t be buying that because this will make you look like a right tight-wad. Go for something mid-priced. And if you’re even thinking of getting all self-righteous and middle-classed about it, I can direct you to my Christmas Pinterest board instead.

I probably need to confess something at this juncture.  I don’t actually look at any of the Amazon Wish Lists.  This is because my wife does all the shopping for presents. Most years, the conversation goes this way, me starting it off:

‘You haven’t actually told me what you want for Christmas yet.’ I usually say this from behind the sofa, knowing what’s to follow.  Chuck the lit match into the fireworks factory and enjoy the show.

Through gritted teeth, she issues her well-practised retort: ‘That’s because I’m thinking about every other bugger’s presents. All you have to think about is mine!’

In the words of Tony Hadley, this much is true.  And I suspect that this exchange has echoes through households up and down the land every year since Wilma Flintstone bought her own Mother’s Day present, wrapped it up, and gave it to Fred to pass on to the kids.   Already, my eldest daughter prepares to take on the mantle.  As she thanks us for our gift to her, her eyes narrow as she rounds on me.  With steel in her voice, she says, ‘Go on, then: tell me what you got me!’  I gawp noiselessly like a goldfish.  ‘You don’t actually know, do you?’ she says, arms folded.  

Then and there, I’m haunted by memories of tricking my own dad in the same way: watching him nod dumbly as I tell him that my present from him and Mum ‘fits really well.’  ‘Good,’ he says, at which point, I pull a game of Subbuteo from behind my back. That’s your past coming to bite you in the arse right there.

And so I say unto you, my dear friends, that Christmas this year promises to be a strange one.  We have no real idea where we shall be or what we will be doing.  We were supposed to have lovely visitors all the way from New Zealand staying with us during our inaugural days in The Shack, but we can no longer promise that we’ll be there in time.  On the bright side, we have ordered a mahoosive pork pie and a turkey from M&S but, at this rate, we could be cooking it over a fire pit somewhere along the A354.  That is – if we had a fire pit. 

Hang on, I’ll just get up my Amazon Wishlist.

©Craig Ennew 2024

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