Christmas alone can be perfect!

Another oldie from my Christmas archive. This one was written in 2002, when I lived in a farmhouse near Killala, Co. Mayo, and felt very happy to be spending Christmas on my own...

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It’s the look in their eyes that gets me. They’ve asked you what you’re doing for Christmas, and you’ve said you don’t know. You might go to friends, but you might just stay in and do it on your own.

Then comes the look. The staring down the nose dewey-eyed 'you-don’t-know-what-you’re-saying-you-poor-sad-loser' look. 

Drives me crazy every time.

 

Of course it's tragic that some people will be lonely and alone on Christmas Day.

 

But the time has come for me to stand up and be counted, on behalf of the multitude out here who will be alone and doing just fine, thanks very much.

 

Well, I wanted to be counted but there’s just me, so I’ll do it myself: one.

One person who will wake up when he wants to on Christmas morning. It’s a special day, so I’ll make sure to leave a few cards and pressies to open, at my leisure, whilst lying in bed.

Then I’ll take a wonderfully peaceful walk along a deserted beach and return home to build a massive fire. 

 

Once the coal is crackling and hissing in the hearth, I’ll phone my family back in London, and chat to my nieces, sister, brother and parents as the phone is passed around their living room. Once again, I’ll reassure my folks that I am fine and happy.

Time to have a little snifter. Crack open the Jameson 12, feel the dark chewy whiskey flowing all over my far-flung bodily bits, warming my heart while cheering my soul.

Now it really feels like Christmas: time to play some music. I’m partial to the Vienna Boys Choir on Christmas morning (I hear they speak very highly of me), but I might just be tempted by ‘The Chieftains - The Bells of Dublin’ Christmas album.

Shocking behaviour.

I’ll play my music as loud as I want to, very probably do a silly little dance and nobody will complain or mock my natural sense of rhythm.

Time to warm up the oven, but what does a man cook to eat on his own for Christmas dinner? Well, exactly whatever he feels like, to be eaten whenever he wants.

 

All I know for sure at this moment is that the meal will consist solely of the most magnificently self-indulgent ingredients. 

 

Possibly a roast shank of lamb, larded with garlic, wrapped in rosemary and honey; crispy roast shpuds; steamed carrots and leeks; a braised onion and a sweet roasted parsnip.

Sound good? 

Oh, you don’t care for lamb? 

 

I don’t care. 

I’m cooking for one.

Such a feast requires a splendid bottle of French red, perchance a velvet St Emillion Grand Cru of great depth and sublime body - much like myself!

As the smells of the roasting meat inveigle their way around the house, I’ll make a few more phone calls, spreading love and good wishes to my friends, scattered around the globe.

Then it’s out the door, and up to visit the landlord farmer and his wife, drop off a bottle of whiskey and a message of thanks to them for housing me in such a happy home.

Oh, and donkeys celebrate Christmas too, so the usual carrots are out, and today it’s nothing but biccies and Golden Delicious apples for my closest ‘neigh-bours’, Kitty and her foal Molly.

Even an atheist Jew such as myself can be a hoary old Christmas traditionalist, so I put the Christmas pud on the steamer and glaze my home-made mince pies, to be snarfed later with brandy butter.

Most important of all, I take the cheeses out of the fridge to let them breathe. A friend in West Yorkshire once described me as 'a pathetic slave to cheese.' 

 

I took it as a compliment. 

 

At Christmas it has to be stinky creamy Stilton on digestive biscuits, and a pungent nutty cheddar on oatcakes, washed down with a healthy dose of vintage port. 

After the meal, a stroll down by the river, enjoying the unique tranquility of the day that’s in it, and back home to watch a movie.  

 

As a child in England, there was comfort to be found in the Christmas morning Beatles film on the box, and in the afternoon the Beeb always used to run Bridge Over The River Kwai. 

 

Some traditions are best left unwrapped, so to be on the safe side I’ll make sure to rent a couple of vids - one new release and one old fave ,something epic like Goodfellas or Dr. Zhivago.

By the time darkness has fallen on my solitary Christmas Day, I will have exercised twice, been well fed and over-watered, ready to snooze a while in front of the fire. 

 

I will not be woken up by any upsetting family rows, or Uncle George needing urgent medical attention after overdoing the brandy.

After my snooze, there’ll be an energetic walk to the bathroom, followed by a decadent soak, and then a bit of a wash and brush up to see if I feel like visiting friends, or prefer simply to stare at the goggle box and drift off into my own private Yuletide nirvana.

How bad does that sound?

 

I will spend money I don’t have; eat and drink as if I were immortal; enjoy my own company, and enjoy feeling eager to step into the pub at noon on Stephen’s Day, to quaff pints of black, whilst listening to tales of woe from sad souls who had to endure the Christmas everyone else wanted.

 

Whether on your own or in the company of others, enjoy a peaceful happy Christmas, and whatever your faith, may your god go with you.

 

 

 

©Charlie Adley

17.12.2002