The Further Away

IMG_4808, Sarah Zucca, 2013

Back in 2007 I wrote that Christmas had lost the meaning it once had. Given our earliest Christmases are as children, the meaning it has is invariably material. A decade ago as I was approaching the end of school, receiving lots of presents or even money in lieu was very little to get excited about. Where once there was unwrapping at 5am, I now struggle to get out of bed at 1pm. By the time I got a job and started generating income I could buy all the CDs and DVDs I wanted any time of the year. Asking for them, because you've been asked what you want, reveals a massive void at the core of the materially-orientated 25th. Currency is just being cycled and because requesting an object requires no consideration on the part of the purchaser, the present isn't really personal so much as a financial obligation to avoid being the one taking more than giving. So come the material crisis in my later teenage years, I began to realise the spirit of Christmas was seeing relatives.

Unfortunately, when I wrote up that realisation it was actually the last time my relatives came over from the US in December. For the past two years they've come over in late October for a pre-emptive combination of three birthdays in November, two in December, and Christmas rolled into one. Still, that leaves Christmas itself rather sparse with only my uncle joining us from down South. This compounds the sense of meaninglessness since the 25th is pretty much like any other day except very few people are working. Since I'm working right up to the 24th and back to the coalface three days later for the stint before the New Year holiday, it feels little different from an extra long-weekend. A far cry from the build-up in primary school when in the final few days before finishing up we'd bring in board games and videos to watch. My traditional viewing of the Muppet Christmas Carol is down to that. In fact, that too reveals a change in perspective.

We're Here Tonight, And That's Enough

The Danbo, Greenplasticamy, 2011

Christmas seems like a thousand days ago. Maybe upward of four thousand. That's the last time I thought Christmas was for me - that is; the last time I felt I was in the targeted demographic, to use the marketing phraseology.

Long gone are the days when I was out of bed at 5am. As are the days I was out of bed at 9am. My noon awakenings hold up the unwrapping each year. It seems so far flung from the golden age I remember, but that might explain the emergence of traditions.

Walk Out To Winter

Ecosse C285, Dave Hamster, 2009

See Christmas? Christmas is a bastard.
-Still Game, Cold Turkey (2005 Christmas Special)

It goes without saying that Christmas is an exceptional time of year at Royal Mail. It's fittingly the antipode of summer. Whereas the sunny season is so light that overtime claims are banned, December is a cash bonanza for those willing to take on as much work as possible - morning prep, doing parts of other walks, IVO, RLB, driving lorries, working your day off. If you need the money, so be it. I'm not interested in working myself to death so I only opt in for the early starts, mainly to deal with gone-aways and do the detective work required of the mal-addressed items that people continue to post every year.

Waking Up And Getting Up Has Never Been Easy

Postmen in the Snow, Rupert Brun, 2010

Throughout this productive year I've maintained the post-a-week pace of writing by planning out the following month in advance. Usually there's around ten drafts in varying levels of completion If I'm struggling to bring a scheduled draft up to standard I'll postpone it a month and bring forward a more complete one. December was to be no different, only accommodating a two week gap between the first week and the Christmas week for obvious employment reasons. Unfortunately I fell ill in the first week which scratched the first post and the past two weeks has seen the Royal Mail network buckling under the strain of the seasonal post and periodic blizzards. I've been waking up early, on the streets till late and going to bed early - rinse and repeat. As such, I've neither had the time nor energy to write.

We Love The Winter, It Brings Us Closer Together

The Hearth, Aaron Gustafson, 2006

Between 1986 and 1990, there was me, my cousin, and my brother. For the best part of the decade it was just us three. The Padre's brothers hadn't had any kids yet.

Around 1992 my cousin moved to Florida via Big Blue and later settled in North Carolina. Roughly every second year my aunt, uncle and cousin would come over for Christmas - and occasionally Easter. When we were still kids, it was easy to maintain a relationship, but by the start of this decade it just became too awkward. One year we could all be on a train to Glasgow having a laugh, and the next time it would all be undone. Ironic considering the ways to stay in touch are much better than 15 years ago.

The 'best' Christmases are still the ones when they come over, though. Christmas doesn't feel like an event unless they're over. Isn't it all about seeing people again in the deep of winter? Something has disappeared from the experience. Perhaps it is the excitement that comes with being a kid receiving all the toys you want. In its place the simple joy of being in a family.

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