This year has been the first time I've spent Christmas in England in three years.
Last year I was in Singapore, watching brown skinned skinheads defile a roast lamb Christmas dinner with chilli sauce, as we sat around the driveway of my shared house, incongruously tropical surroundings whilst the corporate christmas hell of Orchard Road blared in the background.
And the year before, recently heartbroken, I had locked myself away alone in Amsterdam, eventually persuaded out to Utrecht by friends, where I spent most of the time just trying to deal with the raw feeling in my chest which would otherwise rip open my nerves from my toes to my fingertips.
The year before then... I don't remember any more. That was a different life. And like those young kids who claim with a certain amount of plausibility, to be a reincarnated soul, I seem to be forgetting easily as the years go by. It's amazing how memory slips away.
I kept myself to myself this year. The family is made noisier by two growing children under five, and after nearly four decades of practice, my parents operate a militarily efficient Christmas kitchen that warrants little interference over the two days prior. We went through the motions, and it was pleasant. And yet something was a slight anticlimax. But not in a sorrowful way. Just, it came and went. Perhaps preoccupied with my own life, I didn't interact as I could have.
My dad noted this as well. All the preparation, then it's over. He said this with neither great disappointment, nor relief.
Perhaps the generations are shifting.
I remember my grandparents house when I was a child. It was perfect. My dad was one of five, so my cousins and I all had much fun at Christmas reunions. The feel of the tiles on my feet, the open fire, the smells and sounds of that place. They will stay with me forever. Our parents' generation turned the cogs of Christmas, but in retrospect clearly had their own preoccupations, rivalries, secrets. Of course I knew nothing of this. My grandparents simply existed, and with the other adults, read newspapers, talked, slept in their chairs, and through that gave us family, security and love.
This year was the first time I've noticed my father being challenged by organisation; dealing with the intricacies of my somewhat cavalier business model, to be precise. As we studied my accounts, plans, schedules and systems, he admitted he was 'never very good at this kind of thing.' As a former library manager that surprises me. I always looked to him as being genetically predisposed to tight organisation and paperwork.
Over the weekend, my mother related a famous family story from several years ago, but erroneously ascribed the role my grandmother had taken in that instance, to herself. Ironically the story was notable for my grandmother beginning to lose her mental faculties. I realise this is not inconsequential to future Christmasses.
I realise they are getting old. And with that comes some changes.
When my grandfather became old, my mother was no longer intimidated by him. He was a bit of a tyrant, but in his latter years became pitiful. She cared for him with much love, despite history. My own parents never showed me anything but love. Perhaps that is why I sometimes feel inadequate in comparison.
Similarly, I realise now that the high standards of behaviour and organisation that my parents have, might not even be so high as I thought. More surprising, is that perhaps they never were. Perhaps I have always presumed there was an unattainable success level, and became my own worst critic. It is hard to quantify the effect this has had on me over the years, but I feel it even today.
In any case, now I am grown up. And I no longer feel that pressure as keenly as I once did. There is instead a quiet sadness on realising we must soon invert roles, and then bid farewell.
I love my family very much. And there will come a time soon when I must provide more than I take. I will gladly do that. And I hope before then, to bring more love into the house, when my preoccupation finally comes home. Perhaps one day I might even bring more small cousins to play in the grandparents house. A thought I would never have considered seriously, several years ago. Who knows.
In the mean time, we go about our routines, keep our demons locked away behind polite words and formalities, and let the kids run and play ecstatically until they, and us, are exhausted. Then we return to our separate worlds, books, newspapers and thoughts in the silence; one by one retiring to bed, as the cold wind outside soothes the house under the dark blanket of night.
It was ever thus.
Last year I was in Singapore, watching brown skinned skinheads defile a roast lamb Christmas dinner with chilli sauce, as we sat around the driveway of my shared house, incongruously tropical surroundings whilst the corporate christmas hell of Orchard Road blared in the background.
And the year before, recently heartbroken, I had locked myself away alone in Amsterdam, eventually persuaded out to Utrecht by friends, where I spent most of the time just trying to deal with the raw feeling in my chest which would otherwise rip open my nerves from my toes to my fingertips.
The year before then... I don't remember any more. That was a different life. And like those young kids who claim with a certain amount of plausibility, to be a reincarnated soul, I seem to be forgetting easily as the years go by. It's amazing how memory slips away.
I kept myself to myself this year. The family is made noisier by two growing children under five, and after nearly four decades of practice, my parents operate a militarily efficient Christmas kitchen that warrants little interference over the two days prior. We went through the motions, and it was pleasant. And yet something was a slight anticlimax. But not in a sorrowful way. Just, it came and went. Perhaps preoccupied with my own life, I didn't interact as I could have.
My dad noted this as well. All the preparation, then it's over. He said this with neither great disappointment, nor relief.
Perhaps the generations are shifting.
I remember my grandparents house when I was a child. It was perfect. My dad was one of five, so my cousins and I all had much fun at Christmas reunions. The feel of the tiles on my feet, the open fire, the smells and sounds of that place. They will stay with me forever. Our parents' generation turned the cogs of Christmas, but in retrospect clearly had their own preoccupations, rivalries, secrets. Of course I knew nothing of this. My grandparents simply existed, and with the other adults, read newspapers, talked, slept in their chairs, and through that gave us family, security and love.
This year was the first time I've noticed my father being challenged by organisation; dealing with the intricacies of my somewhat cavalier business model, to be precise. As we studied my accounts, plans, schedules and systems, he admitted he was 'never very good at this kind of thing.' As a former library manager that surprises me. I always looked to him as being genetically predisposed to tight organisation and paperwork.
Over the weekend, my mother related a famous family story from several years ago, but erroneously ascribed the role my grandmother had taken in that instance, to herself. Ironically the story was notable for my grandmother beginning to lose her mental faculties. I realise this is not inconsequential to future Christmasses.
I realise they are getting old. And with that comes some changes.
When my grandfather became old, my mother was no longer intimidated by him. He was a bit of a tyrant, but in his latter years became pitiful. She cared for him with much love, despite history. My own parents never showed me anything but love. Perhaps that is why I sometimes feel inadequate in comparison.
Similarly, I realise now that the high standards of behaviour and organisation that my parents have, might not even be so high as I thought. More surprising, is that perhaps they never were. Perhaps I have always presumed there was an unattainable success level, and became my own worst critic. It is hard to quantify the effect this has had on me over the years, but I feel it even today.
In any case, now I am grown up. And I no longer feel that pressure as keenly as I once did. There is instead a quiet sadness on realising we must soon invert roles, and then bid farewell.
I love my family very much. And there will come a time soon when I must provide more than I take. I will gladly do that. And I hope before then, to bring more love into the house, when my preoccupation finally comes home. Perhaps one day I might even bring more small cousins to play in the grandparents house. A thought I would never have considered seriously, several years ago. Who knows.
In the mean time, we go about our routines, keep our demons locked away behind polite words and formalities, and let the kids run and play ecstatically until they, and us, are exhausted. Then we return to our separate worlds, books, newspapers and thoughts in the silence; one by one retiring to bed, as the cold wind outside soothes the house under the dark blanket of night.
It was ever thus.
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