It’s Got To Be Perfect

This year, I’m having a traditional Christmas come what may!

This is my first Christmas in my own place,” I told my flatmate, Rachel. A nurse, she couldn’t get home for Christmas, and I’d elected to stay with her. After all, we’d been friends for years. “Therefore, I want to do everything properly.”

Rachel didn’t look so sure. “A traditional Christmas isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, Tilly.”

“That’s because you’ve been brought up on traditional festivities,” I said. “My family is obsessed with bargains.” “What’s wrong with a bargain?” “Nothing,” I replied. “Except when it’s taken to extremes. I’ve never had a Christmas that wasn’t cut-rate. The one year we had a real tree, the needles had already fallen out by Christmas Eve. The rest of the time we had a fake one that was too tall.” “Surely that’s not so bad?” “It was bent sideways across the ceiling. We had the only star I’ve ever seen that you had to duck to avoid.” I saw Rachel trying not to laugh. “We never had proper stockings, either,” I continued. “We used pillow cases instead.”

“Very practical,” she approved. “Much easier to fit presents into.” “But no magic,” I retorted. “Is it magic you want, or tradition?” she said. “They aren’t always the same thing. I love your family’s Christmases.”

“That’s because they’re a novelty to you. This year I want Christmas puddings made with love and a sixpence inside. I want mulled wine and carols on Christmas Eve. And every gift is going to be personal, not dictated by how many you get for free.”

It could have been the noise from passing traffic, but it sounded as if Rachel muttered, “Good luck with that,” as she turned away.

Although we’d been friends for years, she’d never understood my envy of how normal her family was. But this year I didn’t need to be. It was going to be the best Christmas ever.

It wasn’t easy being perfect, but it was fun trying. I planned it all out on a spreadsheet, which I printed out and pinned to the kitchen wall, using different coloured highlighters to show my progress.

Hand-making cards was sticky, but fun, and the results definitely had a certain charm to them.

Making my own wrapping paper was a challenge until, flicking through a craft book that I’d got for my niece, I found the perfect solution. And once I’d finished, it seemed a shame not to wrap up the stamping kit I’d used as an extra gift for her.

I bought one of those machines at the posh cook shop that chewed up everything you fed into it and churned it out as mincemeat at the other end. That was quite messy too, and I dented the kitchen table where you had to clamp the machine to it. The results looked good in a fancy jar, though.

On the other hand, I was a complete failure at pastry. Three times I tried and each time it turned out as a grey, crumbly mess. In the end I gave in and cheated when I found that you could buy it ready made, in the chilled aisle at the supermarket. I was sure Rachel wouldn’t mind, and I even got the brand that wasn’t on buy-one-get-one-free to make myself feel better.

Rachel put up with it all, even though I could tell she thought I was crazy. “Have you seen my box of Christmas cards?” she asked one day, as I was faithfully feeding brandy to my homemade cake. “I left them on the top shelf of the cupboard so I wouldn’t disturb the Feng Shui of your perfect Christmas.”

I gulped and accidentally slopped in more brandy than I should have.

The trouble with having friends for years is that they don’t miss a thing. “What have you done?” she said.

“I found them yesterday and thought I must have bought them in last year’s January sales…”

“Ye-es…?” She raised an eyebrow. I cringed a bit before I continued, “So, to make myself feel better about it, I got out the pinking shears and cut them up for gift tags.”

Rachel was silent for so long that I started to really worry. After all, her family did this so well, they probably spent a fortune on personalised cards. I began to seriously worry just how much my mistake had cost her!

“I’ll… I’ll hand-make some for you to make up for it,” I offered.

“No need.” She sounded stifled and if it weren’t for how serious it was, I’d have thought she was laughing. “That’s not necessary.”

She took it very well, and she must have got replacements from somewhere, maybe some special website for family cards.

I walked on eggshells for the next couple of weeks up to Christmas as I didn’t want to upset her any more. The funny thing was, she seemed to be doing the same.

Finally, on Christmas Eve, I was ready to purchase The Tree. “Of course I’ll come,” said Rachel when I asked if she’d like to come with me. “It’ll be my tree too, you know. We’ll go halfsies.”

I wondered if I ought to insist on paying for it all myself, but to be honest, having the perfect Christmas was proving to be more expensive than I’d ever realised.

Not only that, but the only trees left were the ones that nobody could afford.

“You’re being ever so understanding,” I said as we toured yet another garden centre.

“Oh well. I know how important it is to you.” She looked away. “Why don’t we get that one? It’s small, but it’s in a pot so we can keep it and use it next year too.”

The tree that she pointed out was two feet tall. It was bushy, but not too bushy at the bottom, tapering up to the ideal seat for an angel. There was no chance it would outgrow the ceiling any time soon, and it would also make the few decorations I’d managed to create look deliberately minimalist, but…

“If we use it every year that’ll make it extra traditional,” she put in before I could object. “And I’ve got some tinsel in my room that would look just perfect… please?”

I’d almost overlooked that it was her Christmas too. “Of course,” I agreed.

Back home I positioned our tree in the lounge, then hesitated. Did Rachel want to help decorate it?

“Rach?” I tapped on her door before barging in. “Do you –?”

She swung round guiltily. “I was just getting this,” she held up a solitary string of tinsel.

Behind her, on the floor of her wardrobe, was her own secret grotto. There was a tiny tree with sparkly lights, tinsel to spare, and to top it all off, Santa’s express train choo-chooed around the base.

“I… needed to have something Christmassy,” she said weakly.

I realised suddenly, how lucky I was to have a friend who would not only give me the space to find my perfect Christmas, but planned to stay with me through next Christmas too.

“That’s the height of naff-ness,” I pointed to the train. “My mother would love it!”

She giggled, so did I, and a tension that I’d been trying to ignore suddenly dissolved between us.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Have I been a real pain?”

“Not completely,” she replied. “Your mum suggested I let you get it out of your system.” “You spoke to my mum about this?” She shrugged, unrepentant. “She said you get like this every few years, and to remind you of the time you tried to fake Santa’s footprints through the lounge.”

“Ah…” Maybe I’d leave that bag of flour in the cupboard after all. “The twins loved it.”

“She said your dad’s workboots were never the same again.”

I giggled. “They nicknamed him ‘twinkle-toes’ after that. Come on, let’s stick some carols on, decorate the tree and start on the mince pies.”

The mulled wine was lovely. The mince pies, however, didn’t seem to be quite right.

“Are you sure that was what that machine was for?” she asked.

“Well, I always get confused between mince and mincemeat, but the shop was so posh I didn’t like to ask.”

“Here,” she pulled a couple of shop-bought packets from an end cupboard. “I got these on offer – buyone-get-one-free!”

I switched the oven back on to warm them up. “There’s my homemade Christmas cake too.”

“Hmm,” said Rachel. “trouble is, I saw how much brandy you put in that. We’ve put a lot of effort into this Christmas and I don’t intend to miss it passed out on the sofa!”

I raised my glass of mulled wine. “To Christmas, our style.”

“And to friendship.” Rachel grinned. “Just don’t make me eat any more of your mince pies.”

Having the PERFECT Christmas was more EXPENSIVE than I ever REALISED