A WORRYING thing is happening. Not only were the cards sent out in record time, presents bought and wrapped and a tree up with lights working a week ago, but I'm enjoying the countdown to Christmas. I can't recall that happening since I was a teenager, which was not, as you might have guessed, yesterday.
It's not that I don't enjoy the day itself in a non-religious way when we reach it, as I do the peacefulness of a family Christmas Eve as the commercial frenzy outside finally subsides.
And our children have always helped that enjoyment, give or
take the occasional tantrum – sometimes by me – and occasional trembling lip – not always me – when a present wasn't what it was expected to be.
Nor do I fret about the hype and sales drives. They can be ignored and we decided to do that long ago.
The problem was that my working life was in farming and journalism, two jobs which take less account than most of the public holiday/country closedown that Christmas has become as we revert to a mid-winter pagan revel – and nothing wrong with that – rather than a religious festival.
It meant that for decades the Christmas countdown involved either working double time to stockpile articles or as part of a team slaughtering and plucking several hundred turkeys.
Not a lot of fun, but someone has to do it and in spite of Bernard Matthews and other industrial-scale producers there are still a surprising number of small farm businesses up to their knees in feathers at this time of year. How pleased I am no longer to be among them.
It wasn't the work. After the first few hours, like most physical jobs, a rhythm developed even as sticking plaster gradually replaced skin on several fingers, bedtime meant pins and needles in forearms and hands, small feathers got into strange places and a turkey claw scratch left a white scar for ever.
Against that was the satisfaction of producing quality fresh food, dealing directly with the public – wonderful people, where would we be without them – and the thought of welcome festive cash.
The problem was not in the turkey sheds, even allowing for the suicidal instincts and anti-social habits of the birds. It was closer to home where one half of the family partnership spending December separating turkeys from their feathers meant the other half had to deal with children, cards, presents – up to and including her own in the busiest years – trees, wrapping, nativity performances, food supplies and everything else that goes to make Christmas what we make it.
That's why what we used to say as a joke, that turkeys keep your mind off Christmas, was only true for one of us.
This year, with more time to get involved, I feel the Christmas spirit seeping through decades of accumulated protective layers but, my puritan instincts insist, surely being ahead of the game and feeling a quiver of enjoyment and anticipated pleasure can't be right?
Aye, I'll pay for this – much like everything else to do with this time of year.
The full article contains 534 words and appears in Scotland On Sunday newspaper.
