Is it just me or is Christmas a bit of an anti-climax in the end?
WELL, there ye are now, at the risk of stating the obvious – it’s all over for another year! Santa has legged it back to the North Pole, the presents have been unwrapped, turkey demolished and we’re all lying polaxed on the couch, chawing rennies.
And is it just me or does everybody feel an overwhelming sense of anti climax? A feeling of ‘what the hell was all that about?!’
We work ourselves up into a state of chronic hysteria in the lead up to Christmas and for what? For one feckin day! We buy mountains of food that nobody eats, enough drink to open a shebeen and by Stephen’s Day all we want is to get back to normal.
When it comes to Santa and presents Himself is a bit of a Grinch. He doesn’t really get the whole ‘ let’s spoil each other rotten’ concept but to be fair if you give him a pair of socks (which I did!) he’d be happy enough.
Christmas Dinner however is another matter altogether. For him, it is the pinnacle of Christmas Day, the whole meaning of Yuletide and God help you if you make a balls of it. This is why he usually takes responsibility for the bird…..and the ham…….and the spuds.
In fact the only things
I’m allowed within an asses roar of are all the foods he won’t eat!
So he cooks the turkey and ham, the boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, potatoes gratin, potato croquettes and makes the gravy. He does all the important elements of the dinner and gets all the glory.
I meanwhile am left skivvying in the background, peeling and chopping carrots and parsnips, brussel sprouts and green beans, all the food nobody really gives a s**** about but you have to have for appearance sake.
It’s a thankless job. No one ever says, ‘Oh My God – your brussel sprouts were divine!’ No they don’t.
They wax lyrical about the bloody moistness of the turkey and the flavour of the ham whilst all my efforts are usually scraped into the bin.
Yes I am having a bit of a whinge but I feel I’m entitled! Because Himself does the centre piece, I end up with the washing up, while he sits on the couch drinking red wine and lapping up the praise for his goddamn turkey, (which truth be told wasn’t even that nice – bit dry if you ask me!)
‘ That was a lovely bit of turkey all the same,’ he comments on Christmas night, basking in the glow of his success. ‘Yep,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘ There’s quite a bit left. What are we going to do with it?’
‘Ah sure we’ll have it for dinner tomorrow and we’ll probably have enough for the day after and sandwiches as well,’ he says delighted with himself.
Just. Shoot. Me. Now.
MY ROLE IS A THANKLESS ONE. NO ONE EVER SAYS, ‘OH MY GOD – YOUR BRUSSEL SPROUTS WERE DIVINE!’ NO THEY DON’T