In the coming weeks, months and maybe even years, I anticipate people asking me, as they will many others: “So, what was it like catching coronavirus and having to isolate over Christmas?”
Although, no doubt, hindsight will bring a newfound clarity, I’m not convinced that I’ll ever be rightly equipped to answer this question, in the same way that I struggle with “what’s it like to be Irish?”, “did you find it weird growing up without siblings?” or “do you like having curly hair?”, because I’ll never have a clear picture of the alternative sitting in the other person’s mind’s eye that they’re so curious to contrast. Your idea of the “perfect Christmas” is unknown to me because it is different to mine, making my completion of this colouring-book spot the difference a bit of a mammoth task.
For starters, every family and social grouping seem to have a different set of unshakeable traditions. For some, the opening of presents must be preserved until Christmas morning, whereas others like to dip into their stockings the night before. Some Santa visits require cookies and milk, while in other houses, a Baileys for the missus sits beside an expertly poured pint of plain for the man himself. Then there’s the classic angel-versus-star-tree-topper debate, closely followed by the pudding question and the debate of whether matching pyjamas on Christmas Eve is completely corny or utterly unskippable.
This becomes amusing when you come to college and are trying to orchestrate a Christmas dinner with friends, who you once thought you knew so well – and, God forbid, even thought were chill and easygoing. Suddenly, there are multiple proper ways to make roasties, the stuffing has becomes a hot topic of debate and you learn that someone’s family prefers to opt for beef on Christmas in place of poultry (I’ll refrain from naming and shaming on this occasion, this being the holiday of peace, love and understanding).
Every family and social grouping seem to have a different set of unshakeable traditions
A few college Christmases later, you’ll realise that there’s a world of variation within the term “Christmas traditions” and that the comforts craved by the festive flocks are perhaps more specific than they are universal. For this reason, I’d be very reluctant to divulge – in sugar-coated detail – the annual treats I’ll mourn whilst in isolation or the aspects I’m still managing to enjoy – because, frankly, I’ll never know what the true essence of Christmas is for you and so, can’t communicate which pieces of that picture I’m really missing.
I have become confident about one thing, however. Catching coronavirus this Christmas period has firmly quashed the notion that by virtue of being alive, we all deserve a picture-perfect Christmas – a notion, that it would seem, has ruined more Christmases than it ever carved out. Think back to Christmases where things went a little pear-shaped: someone burnt the roasties, Santy forgot to put the Nintendo games into the game cases before he wrapped them, the dog broke into the selection boxes and had to be taken to the vet’s A&E, drunk Uncle Tom tried out the new skateboard and also had to be taken to A&E, Granny and Grandad found out that no one actually attended midnight mass, the row that we were all avoiding happened, the row that no one saw coming happened, the car broke down in the snow… the list goes on.
The supposed truth that festive perfection awaits us all underneath the tree deems each of the hiccups along the way to be a disaster
Promoted by advertising, movies and faded family photographs, the supposed truth that festive perfection awaits us all underneath the tree deems each of these eventualities to be a disaster, when there’s no real need for them to be. It also sees some people buying presents they can’t quite afford or couples rowing over the exact positioning of their tree so that it outshines the neighbours’ efforts. It makes a stained dress, a dry turkey, a broken playstation or a chip taken out of the good wine glasses a crime of Judas-like proportions – when in fact, on a rainy April Tuesday, the same would be greeted with only a sigh and a smile.
Last year, the narrative that we all, somehow, “deserved” a wonderful Christmas, given the strugglesome year that preceded it, slowly began to morph into our being “owed” one. Sure, it wasn’t going to be perfect by pre-pandemic proportions, with empty seats around the table and celebrations confined to a small number of settings, but there was a feeling that it should come as close as possible. On one level, this showed great resilience, but it spoke to the same pressures that had consumed Christmases gone by and following a year of intense familial distance, or indeed proximity, the social harmony advertised by this season of goodwill was always going to fall slightly short.
Don’t get me wrong – I thoroughly enjoyed last Christmas, a great deal more than I will this one, no doubt, but a small part of me isn’t sorry to have escaped the stuffy pressures of the season and the veil of snow-covered perfection that seems to hang over it all. So, if anything, I’d like to urge you to have a totally imperfect Christmas this year. Order takeout. Set the tree on fire. Tell your grandad you’re just not that into mass. Give everyone a hug and a bar of Dairy Milk and call it a day. Tell Aunt Joan that you do indeed have no plan or career prospects and just before he mounts the skateboard, be sure to tell your drunk Uncle Tom that he’s great craic.
As people, bar having our basic needs met, we are actually entitled to, or indeed owed, very little in this wide world, and although that might sound cruel, the digestion of this fact brings with it a great freedom. Rather than the be all and end all of family unity and human contentment, Christmas is a brief flicker of light, filled with music, food and company that marks a midway point in the darkest time of the year, just as it marked a midway point in my 10-day isolation. It shouldn’t be a source of pressure, but pleasure, for those lucky enough to relish in it. And for those of us who aren’t, for whatever reason, be that illness, bereavement, loneliness, work or anything else, there’s always next year, and in the meantime, fond memories of festive seasons gone by.
Catching coronavirus and missing Christmas isn’t the end of the world but neither is insulting an in-law, buying the wrong presents or volunteering to say grace before panicking and discarding a dad-joke in its place. At the end of the day, it’s Christmas and it’ll all be over before you can say: Anyone for seconds?
