Merry Christmas....

Happy Christmas one and all!
Yes I know that it’s early November, the aroma of pumpkins and toffee apples still hangs heavy in the air but the world has, once again, gone Christmas mad.
I heard the first tinkling of silver bells as I was shoving vampire capes and witches hats into the attic. The TV showed me pictures of perfect families, on perfect sofas, with perfect clothes and perfect lives.
This advert and the one following it told me that what I have isn’t quite good enough, my family aren’t quite well enough dressed, and if I really want to be happy, deep down happy, I need that white sofa and I need that gorgeous jacket and my kids need the very latest, most expensive gadgets. And I need them all NOW! I need them to properly celebrate Christmas. If I don't have them my Christmas will be, quite literally crap.
There are times when I find myself almost hypnotised by these adverts promising a beautiful family Christmas, complete with snowy scenes and laughing relatives all exchanging gifts in a exquisitely cosy living room with an open fire.
Then the guilt kicks in. Why can’t I give my children that kind of perfect Christmas? One where the house is packed to the rafters with expensive gifts, every one of us is kitted out in fancy designer gear, the house is decorated to perfection with brand new sofas and furnishings and there are gentle flakes of snow fluffing about our shiny new BMW X3.
For two seconds those advertising geniuses take over my brain and make me stressed, make me panic and have me think I need all this stuff to have an actual happy Christmas.
But let’s be honest folks, no one’s Christmas is that perfect, unless you’re Twiggy or Danni Minogue.
I’d say if one of the big shopping stores were to make a Christmas advert about our family – with me being the star of course – it would go something like this…
Camera pans into star’s bedroom. Clock says 4.02am. Parents have just climbed into bed after spending the night assembling Thomas the flipping Tank Engine tracks and ‘test driving’ and ultimately breaking remote control cars. Middle son bursts into room screaming that it is the morning and that Santa has been and gone. He screams that he can hear a remote control car singing 'Who Let the Dogs Out' and wakes rest of family. Baby screams, toddler demands to be let out of his cage, oldest child shouts obscenities from under duvet.
Camera breaks to star’s husband – wearing fetching Christmas jumper and big grumpy face – outside house with engine hood popped. Jump wires are dangling around neck in the hope that one of the neighbours – who are indoors having one of those perfect Christmases – will assist him in jump-starting the car.
Camera moves to star’s mother’s home. Smoke bellows from kitchen into beautifully festive hall. Smoke alarm rings out as various children run screaming up and down stairs, hitting each other with toy swords and sweeping brushes.
Star’s brother stirs ‘mulled wine’ concoction on the stove and talks loudly while ignoring smoking turkey quite clearly on fire in the oven. Star’s sister offers to be mulled wine taster and critic, while she consumes half a tin of Roses at the kitchen table. Star’s older brother tries to dismantle latest fancy gadget he got for Christmas with a screwdriver.
Camera breaks to dining room where star’s younger brother and older sister look drunkenly from squinted eyes at dinner and assure each other that if you keep one foot on ground the room will stop spinning. A gigantic jug half-filled with boiling wine and unpeeled oranges sits between them on the dinner table.
In the corner older brother reassembles his Christmas present which started off life as a DVD player, but is now a toaster.
Star’s husband presents his world-renowned sage and onion stuffing to a chorus of cheers. Star and sister hold a minute’s silence for the deceased turkey.
Gathered family eat, drink and are very merry indeed.
Near the window lights twinkle on a 35-year-old artificial Christmas tree which has branches missing and branches taped on but is still just about able to carry a vast array of sentimental decorations and skinny tinsel.
Children fight, babies scream, dogs bark. Star is surrounded by the people she loves dearly and they’re all laughing.
Camera pans out the window, where a real Christmas tree – bought in haste at a petrol station, positioned in the front garden and dangerously decorated with indoor lights – falls down, fusing the lights.
That’s my kind of Christmas. You can keep your perfect one.