Yuletide felicitations from Jeffrey and Mrs H.!

Saturday, 16th December, 2023

BEING mere days away from the culmination of our festive preparations, I resolved this morning to assess the status of Project Yuletide 2023. For this I turned to my trusty lists. Ah, lists. I love my lists. With lists, I am organised. I keep track of stuff. I get reminders. With lists, I prioritise, categorise, annotate and schedule. I also remember what to buy when I go shopping. I have lists on the computer. I have paper lists on the fridge and on the rather nifty notice board made from wine corks by my good lady wife. Mrs H. seems to think I’m better at remembering things than she is, and will sometimes ask me to remind her of something. But the only way I can remember to remind her is by writing it – on a list.

But at this time of year I go one step further. I use…a spreadsheet. In it I keep multiple lists – cards, gifts and, if guests are due to be staying (which they usually are), a schedule of domestic preparations. November 1st each year marks the arrival of a new tab on my spreadsheet. It is a thing of beauty. Lists – surely the true meaning of Christmas.

Upon retiring from the joys of selling carpets for Messrs Garner, Gooch and Chadbury Ltd. (est. 1904) I also started recording our festive financial outgoings, to ensure that Mrs H. and I blew only a suitably modest proportion of my meagre pension on the celebrations. As I scanned those figures this morning, however, I observed that our definition of “modest proportion” had grown somewhat in recent years. This is because Mrs H. and I have come to an understanding that “we can’t take it with us so let’s spend a bit more of Jack and Sarah’s inheritance”. Indeed, part of the increase is down to the fact that both Jack and Sarah now have children of their own, thus making us proud grandparents and fully justifying the cost of a CoComelon Magnetic Scribbler Drawing Board, not to mention a Nerf Elite 2.0 Double Punch Dart Blaster, etc., etc., etc.. After all, they do say that the season is really for children, so surely this, then, is the true meaning of Christmas. And we’re sure Jack and Sarah won’t mind if there’s a little less in the pot when we pop our clogs.

It’s not all about the kids, of course. So when a litre of Bailey’s comes down to £10, why buy one when you can buy two? Yes, it pushes my spreadsheet figures up a little but there’ll be all the more to share with our tribe on the 25th as we finally get the grandkids in bed and settle down in front of the Call The Midwife Christmas special. Now that is a heartwarming programme if ever there was one. Adversity overcome, selfless acts of kindness, not to mention a healthy dose of nostalgia. Surely three days of uplifting telly surrounded by one’s family and a liberal supply of chocolates is the true meaning of Christmas.

After coffee I smugly gave Mrs H. a progress report, confirming that card posting was 100% complete, local card delivery at 57%, gift purchasing at 84% with 63% of the 84% having already been wrapped. Upon enquiring how the catering plan was progressing I received a slightly forced smile and an assurance that all was in hand for eight adults (including one gluten-free), one vegan teenager, two very fussy toddlers, one newborn and one 10-year-old who eats more than the average family of four. “No problem,” said she, with a vaguely manic expression. “Nothing that M & S can’t cope with.” She is an absolute wonder and blesses us every year with a magnificent feast and leftovers that last until new year. Surely that is the true meaning of Christmas?

We’re not regular churchgoers but we popped along to last Sunday’s service on the promise of mince pies and mulled wine. The proceedings featured something very bizarre with oranges and lit candles which appeared to be nothing but a massive fire risk, not to mention the danger of being poked in the eye with a cocktail stick. As a result I was somewhat distracted as the vicar launched into his explanation. I did sit up and take notice, however, when he said something about red ribbon and blood. I’d always thought the Christmas story was about a baby born in a cow shed but apparently there’s a connection to Easter and what Jesus did when he grew up. “Ah,” I thought to myself, as I endeavoured to remove a raisin from the cocktail stick without drawing blood, “perhaps that is something to do with the true meaning of Christmas.”

So this year, as I update the status of tasks in my spreadsheet, stand in amazement once again at the culinary miracle Mrs H. will inevitably perform and hang baubles on our 23-year-old Wilko Christmas tree, I’ll recall once more the angels, the shepherds, and the star, not to mention setting fire to an orange with sticks in – and I’ll give thanks. With a glass of Bailey’s in one hand and my grandson’s Nerf Elite 2.0 Double Punch Dart Blaster in the other, I’ll celebrate and wish everyone a very happy Christmas.

Jeffrey H. Hankin is a retired carpet salesman. He is probably fictional.