Christmas in July
We have just survived July, including those few days when the temperature climbed above 20 degrees, and the Irish population began behaving as though we were crossing the Sahara. Fans were dragged out of attics, curtains closed, and there were warnings about not walking the dog between breakfast and teatime.
Yet, believe it or not, there are people already thinking about Christmas. I know an ex-work colleague who is now on full countdown.
Actually, some of them have been thinking about it since January. These are the people who go into the sales just after Christmas and buy presents for the following one. I have never understood this. I barely know what I want for my own breakfast tomorrow, never mind what somebody else might want eleven months from now.
They will casually announce around July that they have “most of Christmas sorted”.
This is not normal behaviour.
As autumn arrives, they start counting down the days. Then, once Halloween is safely out of the way, all restraint disappears.
Christmas has begun.
There must, apparently, be at least one new decoration every year. The strange thing is that none of the old ones are ever thrown out. Somewhere in the attic are boxes containing every Christmas decoration the family has owned since approximately 1985.
Some have sentimental value. Others were made by children at primary school using cardboard, glitter and dried pasta. The child who made them may now have a mortgage and children of their own, but the decoration still has to go on the tree.
Trees themselves have been getting earlier.
When I was young, putting the tree up on Christmas Eve was perfectly normal. Now, if you wait until Christmas Eve, people would probably assume you had forgotten Christmas altogether.
The first of December seems to be the generally accepted date, although there are always a few enthusiasts who cannot hold out that long. You can be driving through an estate in November and suddenly spot a fully illuminated Christmas tree in somebody’s front window.
Then come the outdoor lights.
This is something we appear to have imported from America. A few lights around the front door were apparently not enough, so we now have illuminated reindeer, snowmen, Santas, sleighs and flashing stars.
Every housing estate has one house whose owner has completely lost the run of himself.
Lights around the windows. Lights along the roof. Lights through the hedge. A flashing Santa halfway up the wall and several reindeer apparently trying to take off from the front lawn.
You wonder whether they decorate the back as well.
Still, perhaps there is some sense to all of this. December in Ireland is dark, wet and miserable, and Christmas gives us something to fight back with. We turn on thousands of little lights, eat too much, drink too much and convince ourselves that winter is actually quite pleasant.
And for a while it works.
Then January arrives.
The lights come down. The tree disappears. The house suddenly looks bare and the weather, which was described as “Christmassy” two weeks earlier, is now simply awful.
There is nothing to look forward to except the credit card bill and perhaps finding another tin of biscuits that somebody hid at the back of a cupboard.
This is when we start looking at holidays.
A week in Tenerife suddenly seems essential. We browse photographs of people sitting beside swimming pools in January sunshine, check the prices and decide that perhaps we will just wait for spring.
And while the rest of us are staring gloomily out at the rain, somewhere there is somebody in the January sales buying next year’s Christmas presents. And probably another reindeer.
