Laura Davis: I’m dreaming of a white Christmas a month too early

Nov 25 2009 by Laura Davis, Liverpool Daily Post

USUALLY, at this time of year, I would be doing my utmost to avoid all things Christmas.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m no humbug in human clothing. I just thing there’s a time and a place for season’s greetings – and that’s the actual season, not the two months running up to it.

I normally spend Novembers in a state of perpetual worry that I will be tripped up into thinking it’s December.

I avoid looking upwards on city centre streets in case I catch a glimpse of illuminated snowflakes, turn my eyes away from bauble-strewn shop windows and wear my iPod in the supermarket to prevent the chimes of Jingle Bell Rock from infiltrating my ear canal.

Mince pies do not make it into my stomach until after December 1, mulled wine must stay in the bottle until the first door on the Advent calendar has been opened, and decorations remain in the loft until the weekend before the big day.

It’s hard work this avoiding Christmas thing, particularly when the rest of the nation is conspiring against you.

They air their blue flashing icicles in public weeks before Advent, bedeck the streets with boughs of neon holly and start playing carols long before the kids have run out of fireworks to set off in the streets.

There are even some who claim to wish for Christmas to be all year round.

Imagine that. 12 months of egg nog, wassailing and cracker pulling.

Figgy pudding and brandy butter after every meal, a constant soundtrack of carolling, illuminated reindeer on the roofs of houses even in summer.

The side-effects would be terrible.

After a year of Christmas, half the nation would be suffering from gout, our electricity bills would have soared and there would be a country-wide case of tinnitus.

But I suppose there would be upsides, too – at least Church congregations would have stopped declining as people go to Midnight Mass every evening, instead of just once a year.

But, even so, Christmas 12 months of the year is simply wrong, like marrying your brother or eating apple pie with cheese.

Signs of Christmas in November, however, I am learning to live with.

I realised I was fighting a losing battle this year when Andrea Bocelli broke off from his usual operatic repertoire at the Echo Arena a few weeks ago to launch into songs from his new festive album.

Then someone kindly gave me a big plate of mince pies to take into the office and my unChristmas spirit began unravelling.

The final few stitches were undone by the restorative scent of the giant pine tree on Church Street, which I walked past after a disconcerting evening of being bored to death by a comic when everyone around me was falling off their seats with laughter.

Had I lost my sense of humour, I wondered as I dashed from the theatre. Was there something wrong with me?

Then the gentle smell of pine needles wafted up my nostrils and all became right with the world.

If you can’t beat the people celebrating Christmas in November over the head with a cracker, then you simply have to join them in their egg nog-addled world.

So I’ve cracked open the mulled wine, stocked up on decorations and even allowed myself a few bars of In the Bleak Midwinter.

It’s all in vain, however, because deep inside I am aware that, no matter how many mince pies I’ve scoffed and pine trees I’ve sniffed, I will still be the fool who is racing round on Christmas Eve buying last- minute presents.

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