I never thought I’d say this, but Christmas does actually just get more stressful and less interesting the older you get. Parents always used to say this to me and I’d scorn at such blasphemy. But this year, maturity is creeping up on me. I am well past the age of even slightly believing in Father Christmas, as are both my younger siblings. I am beginning to appreciate what a chore it is having family to stay; weeks of cleaning in anticipation, providing enough food for a small, but incredibly fussy country, buying things for people other than yourself, always maintaining an air of politeness even when you really can’t be arsed. I am actually dreading the year I decide not to go home for Christmas because that will be the year my parents start coming to me. As well as this, with age, the things you want for Christmas cannot be bought at ToysRUs. My current Christmas list consists of: 4000 words of English essay, a boyfriend (he doesn’t have to perfect yet, just something to pass the time), however I’d also like more time because there never seem to be enough hours in the day, if petrol prices could deflate that would be fantastic, if I could mentally simulate exercising from the sofa and lose weight that would also be very helpful, and quite frankly I’m surprised that no one has come up with a Matilda-esque device so I can be the ultimate sloth and not get up for anything. In short I have come to the conclusion that the older you get, the more you wish that Father Christmas did exist and miracles could happen. I think I have more hope now than I did ten years ago. I am not sure that this bodes terribly well for the future, but hey! At least I’m getting into the Christmas spirit.
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