Christmas cheer

Ho Ho Ho! It’s December, and Christmas is in full swing! Christmas was actually in full swing from about the end of October, with shops and supermarkets moving seamlessly from Halloween. Decorations appeared in Canary Wharf on about the 9^th of November, and it has basically been downhill ever since. Now I’m not a modern day Scrooge, but neither am I a particular fan of Christmas, and certainly not a Christmas that lasts for two months. A week, I think, is fair enough. Long enough to get into the swing of it, short enough that the end is always in sight, which is always important where large family gatherings are concerned. If it were up to me, Christmas would start on the 23^rd, and all evidence of it would have gone by the New Year, and I think I’m being pretty generous there. An argument could easily be made for a day either side of the actual day and have done with it.

However I’m not in charge, and so it is seemingly endless. Christmas Carols have started in Chateau L already, sung at high pitch by small girls, and frequently before 8am. Needless to say this is insufferable, but there appears nothing I can do to avoid it. Entreaties to stop are met with whispered conversations with Mrs L, giggles, and even more happy singing. And herein lies the problem: Mrs L is a big fan of Christmas. Not in the sense of smothering the house in lights, an inflatable Reindeer on the roof and sticking a “Santa please stop here!” sign in the front garden, but of just generally being deliriously happy that it is on the way, stocking up on wrapping paper, cooking stuff, encouraging offspring, and playing Christmas music late November. This is typically restricted to her car in the early stages, but by mid December it has made its way indoors and permeates everywhere.

I cannot even escape it at work. Whilst there are no Carols, various employees seem to delight in competing with each other to see which area can decorate their desks in the most outrageously lurid manner. Obviously I do not get involved, but as we sit in little cubicle-like things we share adjoining walls, and mine are now covered in green and gold tinsel. It would seem churlish to push  it back over the edge, so I tolerate it. But there are some elements of office Christmas that are simply intolerable.

Secret Santa.

Of all the irritations that Christmas brings, office Secret Santa is amongst the very worst. An email recently came round offering this delight, complete with voting buttons. Naturally I voted no. My team however are very aware of my dislike of this time of year, and knowing how I would vote somehow knobbled the system and had my name put down anyway. Thinking I was safe I was aghast to receive a name out of a metaphorical hat (the internet does all of this now, hats not required) along with instructions on how to wrap it anonymously etc etc. Maximum gift value ten pounds. TEN POUNDS!!??

Naturally I barely knew the person I had to buy a present for at all. This always happens. Every year I refuse to take part. Every year I am given a name anyway. And every year it's for the person I am least likely to have the faintest clue of what interests them. So starts the angst-ridden countdown to the Secret Santa diary entry where we all gather round a garishly decorated desk to distribute the gifts. I have no idea how much time I wasted wondering what on earth I was going to do, but somehow I managed it. I should have put a tenner in an envelope as soon as the email came round and had done with it. Anyway, I sourced some piece of junk, duly wrapped it up, and then forgot about it until yesterday at 4pm. And then it got a whole lot worse. Just before the grand event happened I bent down to tie my shoe lace, and seizing this opportunity somebody put a Santa hat on my head.....

So now what? In this era of smartphones video and photographic evidence would be obtained and circulated widely to colleagues in other offices. Company printers would likely be abused and colour A3s of me being Santa would appear. On the other hand to throw the hat on the ground and swear copiously in front of twenty-five people would not be very graceful. Or managerial. So to raise team spirits and promote togetherness I was Father Christmas for five minutes. Ho ho bloody ho. Anyway, hopefully it was worth it and people now feel like Christmas has started. Also note that comments about my perfect physique for this role did not go unnoticed, and when annual reviews take place later this month a number of people should expect very poor appraisals indeed!

L'Enfer de Mickey

I've just come back from Disneyland Paris, the most openly commercial enterprise on the planet. Pizza planet. TM. Hell's Bells, what a place! In cold murky weather, the park was nonetheless completely rammo, and 100% devoted to making money for Walt and his descendents. In addition to forking out to stay there, and getting in, we have come back with one plastic sword, one pistol, two holsters and a belt, a rifle, a cuddly alien called Bob, a jigsaw, and of course Mickey Mouse. Queues for some of the rides peaked at two hours, and the food in the park was uniformly grotesque and massively overpriced. A fast-food meal for five that would have made Maccy D's look like haute cuisine set me back fifty quid, and in one of the sit-down restaurants billed as an "exclusive dining experience" we experienced possibly the worst service in the entire world.

That said, if you can get over the rampant capitalism, and somehow plan your day such that you get the big rides over with outside of peak times, ie in the dark just before the park closes, you can convince yourself that it's quite fun. For famille L, it was about spending time together, rather than the setting - though of course (and this was the entire point) three small children found the experience pretty wonderous, especially Pudding, aged five and a half, for whom Fantasyland was the greatest thing EVER. As every parent will tell you, there is no price that can be put on watching their offsprings' eyes shine, though Walt perhaps comes closer than most....

We stayed in a "Woodland Cabin" at Disney's Davy Crockett Ranch. For Woodland, read Porta. Still, it was far more reasonable than the other hotels, and we did our own living space, though any cats we might have brought should consider themselves fortunate. It did have an excellent swimming pool, which we made full use of. Note to any fathers thinking of making this trip: swimming shorts ARE allowed, and you do NOT have to wear Speedos. Note to self: Fuck.

Pixar has been ruthlessly assimilated

 

We spent all day in the parks, which is totally exhausting, and spent many hours queueing. We wised-up pretty quickly though, and days two and three were much more worthwhile in terms of ratio stood around doing nothing to actually going on rides. Yesterday for instance I was able to get out of my It's a Small World boat, walk around to the front again and get straight back in for another session of musical torture. Ditto the Mad Hatter's Teacups, which had I spent any time in a queue for, I may actually have killed a cast member. The best ride was easily the Pirates of the Caribbean, though had I had the nerve to go on the Indiana Jones rollercoaster, that might have been a contender. As it was, Big Thunder Mountain was quite enough for my sensibilities.

One thing I will say is that Disney has Christmas down to a tee. I was hoping for this, and it didn't disappoint. The place was awesomely decked-out, there are almost no superlatives adequate. Superb in every respect, you could not help but feel buoyed and highly jolly - until you ate the food perhaps. Got home yesterday evening via a momumental shop in a french supermarket, on the basis that I have not yet consumed enough calories this Christmas season. Our fridge looks lovely, and we have a fabulous stock of extremely unhealthy cheeses, cold meats, apple pies etc that we absolutely have to eat up before January when the diets start.



We now have only two children

Christmas-tastic

Ultra-orthodox Advent Calendar

And Lo! an Advent Calendar was purchased for the children residing in Chateau L, a fancy-ass pop-up book Advent Calendar, and one utterly bereft of chocolate. And so it came to pass that a couple of days ago, the third-born child didst open the door marked "1". And there was much rejoicing.

"Oh look Daddy, it's a book."

OK, perhaps not that much rejoicing. In fact there was something approaching downright apathy. In the absence of chocolate, the greatest Advent Calendar desires of children are generally crackers, yule logs, jolly Santas and Christmas-themed penguins. Not books. But - and although the child in question was completely unaware of the significance - this was no ordinary book. No, if you looked closely there ran the following inscription. Holy Bible. Rubbish. That's no way to start an Advent Calendar is it? Suck them in, make them eager for number two!? Well, only perhaps in the sense than it cannot possibly be more boring.

Yesterday came, the second-born's moment had arrived.

Anti-climax.

"Daddy, it's a man banging a table." This statement had a certain air of finality about it, and indeed there was little opportunity for follow-up.

"Err, yes, so it is."

Whilst my religious knowledge is negligible, stemming mainly from a complete lack of interest, a closer inspection confirmed that this latter-day iconography of Man Banging Table was probably Joseph the Carpenter. I didn't bother attempting to explain, as subsequent days could very easily surpass my knowledge of the Christmas Story. Whaddya mean there are no penguins??!

Nonetheless, there are perverse and highly cynical feelings of intrigue circulating amongst the older residents of Chateau L as to what gems of quasi-fact further days may bring. Might we, for instance, get the full heavenly host and the immaculate conception? Or just the Donkey? Or perhaps a crude mixture of the two, the Mary that we never knew about? We can but hope. I can't fault the design, it's pretty cool. But the message? Come on! Christmas is about gazillions of presents, excessive materiality, and the gross consumption of food and alcoholic beverages - everybody knows that. Anything else is pure heresy.