The Christmas that broke the camel's back
I'm done trying to recreate a Nancy Meyers film every December
For the 15 years I’ve lived in London, I’ve been obsessed with orchestrating an idyllic Christmas in the city, ticking things off like I’m playing a game of Bingo. I make a list of everything I need to do/watch/eat to have the perfect Christmas and from Halloween onwards, I’ll start girding my loins for the magical time I feel compelled to have.
Must. Feel. Festive.
If I’m not feeling festive, I’m not trying hard enough. So I’ll book ice skating, re-watch The Holiday, hang another garland, light another candle, eat another mince pie, and refresh the weather forecast in the hope of potential snow (it never snows).
I can’t tell you how or why this rigmarole started but I suspect it’s got something to do with 30-odd years of ingesting Christmas films featuring roaring fires, glistening snow, joyful gatherings around pianos and endings where everyone rallies together in a selfless show of love and community.
Going much further back, I’d pinpoint blame on the Winter Story from the Brambly Hedge books (I’ve never wanted to live in a tree stump more), Charles Dickens, Home Alone 2, Hook (oh, to have that attic bedroom in Kensington), the Holidays-Are-Coming jingle, The Snowman, Little Women, plus that most underrated British Christmas classic: the 1992 Yellow Pages advert.