Week 33: First Christmas

Type of Writing: An account of Kit's first Christmas.

‘Twas the Saturday before Christmas, when all through the house

     The Prime Minister’s voice came stirring:

‘   It is with a very heavy heart, I must tell you, we cannot continue with Christmas as   planned.

    In England, those living in tier four areas should not mix with anyone   

    outside their own household at Christmas.’

     

    The news came as something of a hammer blow for our family. We have had the best of times this year. A new addition. A little boy that has filled our hearts with happiness and cheer. A candle in the gloom. For this year we have also had the worst of times. Dad, Raj, Grandad passed in the first wave of the pandemic, two weeks before his grandson was born. The Christmas was the opportunity to be together in a meaningful way for the first time: to induct an infant into the day and raise a glass to a man who embodied its values: good will and kindness to all.

    Ultimately, it was the right decision the Prime Minister made. Unfortunately, like many of his U-turns it came weeks late. So our heads did drop. Our family island had to be parted, turned into clusters, archipelagos strewn and sundered by these bleak times.

   But then Harriet piped up: “Let’s get organised.”

    Like a trade unionist in the 1980’s, she mobilised the workforce and took a stand against the Scrooge-like year. Her mum was called first. She was told that we would meet in one house, under one roof, with three windows and that residence would be called Zoom. I was then instructed to ring my family and disseminate the message, ‘Christmas is on mother, brother. It’s on like Donkey Kong.’

    On Wednesday the food order was picked up. Harriet’s mum then cooked the beef, pork and turkey. Once done, she divided the meat into three foil boxes, labeled up like a Chinese takeaway, then delivered them to our door. We then divided up the booze we bought, ensuring everyone got beer, wine, prosecco and Baileys (in a reused plastic bottle).

    On Thursday we become Meals-On-Wheels delivering Christmas food and presents to my mum and brother. Included in their box is the itinerary for the day: 9am – Presents; 1.30pm – Food; 6.30pm – House of Games. Yes, our original plans had gone out the window. We could have let the day slide into the shapelessness that typifies every other Bank Holiday, where you wonder what on earth you did and where the hours went. But this was Christmas. Things needed to be done at certain times. Doing differently would disrupt the very fabric of existence. Without structure, our lives would collapse into puddles like The Snowman in the miserable cartoon. No, our day would be co-ordinated like a school trip with free time scheduled in. In a chaotic year, one thing would stay the same: Christmas would remain organised fun.

    On Thursday evening we ring our bells outside at 6pm. Harriet said weeks ago this would be a national event on par with Clap for Carers. The sweet symphonic jingle a reminder that we’re together this Christmas. At it was, only number 57 rang theirs. I’ve never felt so lonely. Shouting ‘Happy Christmas’ at them, we shuffle out of the cold into the warm bosom of the TV. We then get the boy ready for bed in Christmas pyjamas; we then put our matching ones on – I had no say in this: not since I asked a waiter in LA for the ‘Rest Room’ have I felt so American.  

    It’s now Friday morning and Kit is wondering what’s going on. First, we moved a tree into the living room. Then, we brought lights and tinsels in. Now, it is a shitload of boxes wrapped tight like corsets, gasping for air. After opening a few presents with him, we log on to Zoom and find some special people behind the Advent window. There’s Grandma and Grandpa, and Grandma and Kieran. (Neither Grandma would budge on the grandmother nomenclature; therefore, we’re destined to say to Kit, “No not Grandma Fiona, Grandma Allyson”; “No not Grandma Allyson, Grandma Fiona.” This is what happens when you’re raised by strong women.)

    Everyone really enjoys seeing Kit’s disinterest as he opens the presents – and his interest as he eats the boxes. It’s such a special thing for them to see their grandchild, their nephew, on his first Christmas day and despite it taking two hours and only being halfway through, they don’t seem to resent him for taking up their time. I worry amongst it all that he’s been thoroughly spoilt and he’ll grow up like Violet Beauregarde to chew gum and be insolent to chocolate makers, but then I remember he’s not even one and he'll never get as many presents again. There’s a good chance we’ll make a Charlie Bucket out of him yet.

    At 11 30 we break to put the veg on and set the table, then we’re back online for Christmas dinner. Kit is now dressed as an Elf. His mum has arranged it this year that he’s practically had on a Xmas outfit for the whole of advent, but this has to be the cutest. He looks like Pygmalion sculpted him and Michelangelo painted him – he looks perfect. A beautiful, beautiful boy. I touch his cheek and tell him that he is a wonder. He smiles then hits himself in the face with a teething toy.

    We’re all online. Everyone has someone to pull a cracker with. It’s worth remembering this make us fortunate. We trade cracker jokes, put on our Xmas glasses and commend Allyson on putting all of the food together. My brother raises the subject of our dad, says how we should toast him. I agree, but neither he, me or my mum really know the words to that song. We talk about him: how happy he would be that we were all together, even if it is on screens; how he loved to give presents and felt embarrassed to receive them. My mum says his gift vouchers would often remain in the top draw, untouched and out of date. She puts that down to selflessness: how spending money on himself wasn't something he thought of; I laugh and tell her, “No, it was forgetfulness. He never was very organised.” We raise our glasses and drink to ‘Dad,’ to ‘Raj.’ As the adults do this, a grandson watches on. A grandson that possesses his name, carries the flame. We then eat pudding.

    After watching the top 25 Strictly dances (I guessed right on Jay’s Pulp Fiction jive), we meet again online to play House of Games. House of Games has achieved something I never thought possible and surpassed Pointless as our family's favourite Richard Osman quiz. With cards divided up prior to the day, we go through the rounds, ending on Answer Smash. Controversially, Rod loses points for calling out the answers and not using the buzzer, which means victory is ours. Despite a judge’s inquiry and recriminations that will last long into the new year, the decision stands.

    With the boy put to bed, Harriet and me catch up on Worzel Gummidge by Mackenzie Crook, the pastoral poet of our day. We then watch an old episode of Taskmaster on All4 – we loved the recent series and are catching up on past ones.

    Full from washing up and indulging, we climb the stairs to bed. We check in on the baby in the manger and bless Kit James Raj goodnight. I add some emphasis on the last name and smile. It’s been a good day in a confusing year.