I hate Christmas. I have done for very many years. For almost all of those years I have been trying to decide whether this is due to some deep psychological problem stemming back to my childhood (my mother, regular as clockwork, flying into a foul temper on Christmas Eve?).
I have to tried to rationalise it in terms of commercialism and capitalism, in terms of Christianity hijacking a Pagan Feast to manipulate and brainwash the populace. I have criticised it in terms of financial pressure - especially on parents of small children - to spend far more than they can afford on things that are over-hyped and over-marketed. I have criticised the pressure, partly media and partly peer, to have a Good Time, to raise one's expectations far too high and, inevitably, to be disappointed.
I have criticised the myth that no one works on Christmas Day when in fact very many people do. I resent the fact that I am forced to take several days off work whether I like it or not, at a time that is not of my choosing, in weather that is possibly not ideal for going out, at a time when many things I would otherwise enjoy are closed (and on Christmas Day there's no transport to get there). Not that I think that work is more important than hedonism, far from it, but I would rather have an extra ten days a year off when I want it than be forced to take time off to participate in enforced false jollity or take trips out the same day as everybody else on other Bank Holidays...of course, this is predicated on other employers being enlightened and allowing staff time off to celebrate Christmas should they so wish, assuming that they are not delivering public services.
I have tried to rationalise these things. I have tried to evangelise my way of thinking. Well-meaning people have tried to explain to me that there are ways of coping. But the simple truth is, Christmas induces in me a mixture of panic attack and depression. And it's not that I tend to do panic attacks or depression in the general course of things.
I have today come to the conclusion that what I actually have is a full-blown phobia to Christmas. Like many phobias, it has a shred of rationality in it but is largely irrational and disproportionate. Try telling someone who is scared of spiders that they are harmless and our friends. It doesn't take the problem away. Their general response is 'But I'm scared of spiders'. It is pointless and insulting to try to argue with them rationally. They may be very rational people otherwise but they are arachnophobic. I have looked it up on the net but my favourite source isn't particularly forthcoming. I did read something that suggested that normal people never have panic attacks, so I may have to revise my above statement - perhaps I am prone to panic attacks but just regard them as part of life and something to be dealt with, something that generally urges me to get organised or to act. Oh god, maybe now I'm suffering from Hipovikipediofactophobia...
Quick reader poll: do you have panic attacks?
I do. This month alone, I had a several panic attacks thinking about packing for Valencia. I had a panic attack as I approached the opera house in Valencia on Saturday (I almost always do when I am due to see Plácido - is this normal?). I had a panic attack on the Tuesday as our taxi went through Clapham on the last leg of the journey (what if the house has burnt down/been burgled). I had a panic attack on Saturday when I knew I had to get to Streatham to shop. I had a panic attack earlier today packing a parcel to take to the Post Office. I had a panic attack an hour or two ago about writing a shopping list for cooking on Thursday. I'm going to panic as I approach Sainsburys tomorrow evening.
I am going to have to live with the fact that I have Xmasphobia. I have to accept that I am alone and that actually everybody else gets pleasure trailing around precincts and high streets looking for cheap tat to give to people to show their appreciation. Everybody else loves tinsel and blow up Santas climbing over balconies. Everybody else loves crap telly, spending time with people they don't like, and other family members, too. Everybody else adores the fact that every shop they venture into - even if it's just to get bread, milk and soap powder - is playing the same jolly jolly musically bereft horribilisation of commercial Christmas pop (or worse, tinny unconvincing carols). Everybody loves writing cards and wrapping presents. Everybody savours the prospect of queuing for up to half an hour to check out at the supermarket. It's just me that doesn't. I'll stop complaining now, accept that I'm in a minority of one and resign myself to my once-in-a-decade look at Eastenders on the Day Itself.
I feel I ought to wish you appropriate Season's Greetings, but that would be as sincere as a Cynophobic hoping you enjoy Crufts!
