Let’s get one thing straight, I’m the Grinch.
I hate Christmas. I’m not too sure why. Maybe it’s suppressed trauma from childhood, maybe it’s my innate aversion to capitalist ‘holidays’.”Atheism probably has a hand in it somewhere too.
For years I looked forward to this time of year for one thing and one thing only: Black Friday, and the January sales. I mean with no partner or wee wallet leeches (children), this time of year is when you can get all the wonderful things you need at the cut-down price point that corporations really can afford to sell you stuff.
I never put Christmas trees up because I have a cat, I’m not a masochist. Or at least that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
This year though, I’m with a woman who adores Christmas as much as Dahmer loved Black & Decker. So I offered something so out of character she must have thought I’d had a stroke.
I offered to help her decorate her Christmas tree.
She was over the moon, excitement bubbling away as the day of said tree erection drew closer and closer. I admit it was cute. And then the day came.
What have I done? I come down the stairs to boxes and bags everywhere, the cupboards in her house clearly run on Tardis tech because I have no idea where all the glittering, twinkling, cheery crap had appeared from.
Top 50 Christmas hits blaring from the television, snowman curtains in the bathroom. Do you have any idea how creepy that is when you’re taking your morning dump and Jack Frost is staring into your soul with an ear-to-ear grin?
“I have a spare carrot if you need help there, mate,” I can imagine him saying.
The tree is presented, carefully decorated with oversized bobbles and personalised decorations. We sit back and admire our work.
I must admit, once everything was done, and we curled up to yet another bloody Santa Clause movie, it felt kind of cosy. My deep-rooted hatred of tinsel and flashing lights starting to fade, just a little.
But then came the pièce de resistance.
I wasn’t expecting to have planted a mole, a kindred spirit as such, 9 months ago when I handed her a kitten at Valentine’s. She wasn’t expecting it either. She already had a couple of cats, none had even so much as given the slightest shit about the decorations in the years prior.
But Poppy? Oh, Poppy thought she’d died and woken up in some sort of overstimulated hell. She had never experienced Christmas before. To her, it was unnatural.
‘The baubles are not supposed to be there, the tree is for climbing, the ornaments on the mantlepiece are clearly taking up my spot, and these lights are too gawdy, let me chew on the wires and calm this shit down just a notch or two.’
Poppy made me smile, she made me enjoy the day whilst Jemma sits calling her all the names under the sun she probably buries deep inside during her day job (She is a nursery teacher).
As my little lookalike Gonk hangs from the tree, I wonder if you can get Grinch cat ornaments for next year.
Poppy shall be our little Grinchette.
Featured Image Credit: The Sewanee Purple
Trying to find my voice in the modern digital journalism landscape.
Have a creative flair, and not scared to rock the boat.
