Tis the season to be Jolly.

I don’t think I have ever believed in Santa. It just seemed so remarkably inefficient that my parents would buy my presents and give them to a stranger to return them on Christmas Eve. Inefficient and beyond reasonable caution. It’s not just Santa I don’t believe in. I don’t believe in Christmas. I don’t mean that in an agnostic or even atheist way. I believe in the birth of Christ our Saviour. I believe in a season of goodwill to all and peace on earth. I just don’t believe in Disney, or Coca-Cola, or the need to send everyone I have ever met a Christmas card, to deck my house out in boughs of throwaway tat, or to eat myself into a sugar induced coma, or to buy shit no-one wants made by modern day slaves in Bangladesh wrapped up in a needless waste of tree, I don’t see the point in butchering a tree to stick in your house for a few weeks at most, or any of the other ludicrous and appalling behaviour excused with the rousing chorus of “but it’s Christmas!”.
I have in recent years become adept at avoiding Christmas. In the past I have worked in children’s homes and who could deny children in care a well staffed Christmas with all the trimmings? I’ve volunteered in homeless shelters, I once supervised a paedophile for a very long and painful week, and this year I had a severe bout of flu. Being bed bound gave me time to reflect on a few things. I realised I got exactly what I asked for. Nothing.
I learnt at a young age if someone asked you what you wanted for Christmas the correct, parent-approved, response was “I don’t know.” There was absolutely no point in being honest and saying Barbie’s Dream Castle when in fact you were going to be presented with a second-hand Sindy with matted hair whose head continually fell off. Christmas is so much easier when you’re very young and genuinely anything at all is amazing. I had some pretty ace presents – I was given many Sylvanian Families (more to my father’s unending pleasure than mine). Actually come to think of it, Sylvanian Families are the only presents I can remember appreciating. I was once given a bike I never wanted because my brother had begged and begged for a bike. I wasn’t allowed to ride it on the road because it was too dangerous, on the pavement because it would annoy pedestrians or in the local park because it was against the by-law. Which left our garden. And that was too small. Then there was the Commodore C64 (that’s a computer to anyone under 25) my brother really wanted. This was a joint present that lived in his room and I wasn’t allowed to use. When I was in a massive George Orwell phase of literature I asked everyone for more books. I was duly given some pious stories and the Jackie Annual. As I get older the presents get worse. As a teenager I was handed a yellow bra with the words “I know you won’t like it.” Why the fuck did you buy it then? Spot cream. What a pissing insult. A suitcase at 18 as a massive hint to leave home. My mother came back from a trip to Australia with a summer cardigan (yes ,Christmas is still in winter over here) with 8ft long arms. I really liked the colour but how the fuck are you supposed to wear that? The following year it was an appalling tie dye skirt in a size 16. I was, and still am a size 8. “Put some elastic in it,” she said. Oh, and there was a shirt to go with it. A totally clashing shade of yellow, possibly mustard, with a flower print on, and ribbons sewn in. And sequins. Let’s not forget the sequins. And of course it was too big. Prior to that she gave me make up which would have suited Naomi Campbell. It was cheap no-brand make up undoubtedly tested on animals and possibly small Vietnamese street children and I can only assume was designed for much darker skin than my own. This was the year my sister in law came for Christmas, although at this time she had only been my brother’s girlfriend for five minutes. She received a nice hat and scarf set from my mother. I got the shit make up for a black woman. This was the year I decided honesty was the best policy. I tried diplomatically to say I appreciated the thought, but it probably wouldn’t suit my pale almost translucent skintone. I was told I was an ungrateful bitch and wouldn’t be getting presents again. I took the make- up back to the shop and got £5 in exchange. I spent it on gin.
Last year I had to go with her on Christmas Eve to get my own present. I had the same age old problem of not being able to think of anything to ask for that I might reasonably get so what I ended up with more ill fitting underwear and pointed her in the direction of Lush. Lush, over run with over-helpful shop assistants. They put green stickers on the vegan products. They write ‘vegan’ on the vegan products. What did she buy? Honey bath soak. Honey. Bees died for that.
This year I saw my mother some time recently. I don’t know, September? July? Recently enough. She said, “Do you still wear that nice stone bracelet I gave you?” Being a pedant two words jumped out at me: “still” and “nice”. I don’t wear any jewellery ever nevermind about “still” wearing jewellery. Furthermore my mother has never given me anything “nice” so I really didn’t know what she was talking about. I managed to deflect the question and not say what I was actually thinking but she’s still offended I don’t wear whatever awful thing she is talking about. Nevermind how offended I am she took all the gold jewellery my grandmother left me before she died and gave it to my sister in law. A total fucking stranger. She’s never met my grandmother. I’ve only met her twice. And she has my birthright.
So this year when my mother asks what do I want and I still have my 7 year old self’s instinct to say “I don’t know” I managed to think of something. “Oh I saw a lovely diary in the National Gallery. It has a Renaissance painting on each page.” “Oh you don’t want that.” I hate her fucking habit of telling me what I do and don’t want. Maybe this is why I just can’t be bothered. “That’s boring. I’ll just give you money.” Just. I don’t mean ‘just’ as in a small amount. I mean ‘just’ as in no fucking effort involved. How boring. I literally got a cheque at the beginning of December and nothing else.
So I’ve figured it out now. All I want for Christmas is for my mother to pretend to give a shit about me for long enough to work out who I am. Or maybe she really is under the delusion her daughter is a fat black woman with a penchant for hideous tie-dye.