Welcome Back and Merry Xmas to my mojo

Some aspects of the festive season have turned me off for the longest time:

• The pressure to buy imaginative gifts when all I can think of are socks and scarves;
• The struggle to suggest to rellies what I’d like for Xmas and who are never satisfied when I say, Oh just a bottle of gin will be fine. (Although, one can never have too many earrings.)
• Mistletoe that has to be replaced every few days … hmmm, is that a metaphor?
• Glitter and pine needles everywhere that even my ridiculously expensive Dyson can’t keep on top of. (Ugh – preposition at the end, sorry);
• Xmas cards that are bad for the planet. All hail, JacquieLawson.com!
• Squeezing into too-tight sparkly clothes that I wear just once a year. Thank goodness for Bridget Jones’ knickers.

One thing always more-than-compensates for the above trials and tribulations – and that is that I don’t have any reason to complain about any trials or tribulations, whereas too many others don’t get any pressies, enough food, glitter, or Xmas cards.

And some who do are going to have a much worse Xmas than I ever could. In no particular order: 

• BoJo, because he just lost North Shropshire (they’ll be back) and David Frost (Hells Bells and Little Fishes!)
• Michael O’Leary, because he can’t pollute the planet or interrupt people’s sleep as much as he’d like, thanks to Covid
• Justin Welby, because he’s confused about the raison d’être of his Church
• Emmanuel Macron, simply because.

In other words, stop whingeing, Woman, and thank your lucky stars.

Especially this year.

While last year a Covid lockdown was expected and the novelty kept the doldrums at bay, this year’s cessation of activities had all the makings of being a real bummer (I’m not whingeing; I’m scene-setting). On the plus side, I did manage to get quite a few jollies in before Witty BoJo and Humourless Whitty pressed the panic button after which, three dos in four days were cancelled, which really ticked me off, on behalf of others not for myself.

A walk to a pub was to cheer up a friend. The next day’s lunchtime drinks and nibbles for a local committee, already moved from a pub to the Chairman’s home (he forgot to ask his wife before he rearranged the venue – OUCH) was an excuse to catch up with a mate who’d recently suffered a bereavement. This Xmas is going to be horrid for him, and hugs were to be the order of the day. Then drinks in a south London pub – I love London pubs probably more than I love village pubs: no idea why (perhaps the topic of a future blog?) – were switched to a Zoom event. This was supposed to be a thank you with loads of hugs (again) for one of my other committees that has worked very hard this year. Darn it.

I’m hoping that just the offer of a pub-walk and the invite to a lunchtime schmooze went some way towards lightening my friends’ respective loads. For me, there’s nothing like knowing someone is caring enough to reach out, even a tiny bit, to release the endorphins and kickstart the serotonin. Who needs gin?

The other thing I find that helps is ‘nesting’, i.e. cleaning and tidying, so the blessed glitter I’d considered a curse is actually a blessing, and I feel an awful lot better while wiping it away (repeatedly). Well, it’s either nesting or OCD-ing; a shrink would have a field day.

Doing something constructive helps to counter / alleviate / mitigate negative feelings. Some play music. Some play sport. Some cook. I write: often my blog. Some of you love it – thank you so much! Some can’t bear to read it, but we’re still friends, right? I’m irreverent (I said irreverent, not irrelevant) to the point of being rude. I’m also opinionated, provocative (no, not the Bridget Jones’ knickers), confrontational, quick-fire by nature but I know when to be judicious (that could be a positive character trait, ooer), thought-provoking (another one?), stroppy and arrogant.

After a wobble this autumn when I didn’t like me at all (and let’s face it a lot of other people didn’t either and I don’t blame them; I was a right royal pain in the ass and an absolute bore) a select few gave me an ear, a word or a hand that did the trick. So while I might still be a pain in the ass and a bore for other reasons, at least I’m back to being irreverent, rude … actually no. The all-encompassing adjective I like is “feisty”.

Yes that’s me. A feisty, right-wing, patriotic, Brexit-voting, woke-loathing northerner, a huge badge I wear with pride and a big smile on my face whatever toys the gods throw at me out of their prams. I just chuck them back.

Which returns us to my earlier dictum – that I have nothing to complain about compared to far too many people who don’t have any pressies, enough food, glitter, Xmas cards, toy-chucking capabilities – or good mates.

So here’s wishing my good mates a gin-addled Christmas and a whinge-free (from me) 2022.

With loads-a-hugs.

Rx