Despite my age, The Mother still makes sure to send me an advent calendar every year. I’m not quite sure why she feels the need. She buys me one, sends it, we remember to open the doors for a few days, then leave it and suddenly remember, around the 20th, that we now have a few weeks worth of chocolate to eat. So far this year we’ve opened it every day, but I’m not really sure how long that’s going to last.
When I was small, of course, I got one every year – but always kept the previous years’. This was in the days before chocolate advent calendars – or, at least, the days before my mother felt it worth buying chocolate advent calendars, which I didn’t start receiving until the 90s. Back when I was a child, every year on the first of December the advent calendar collection would be stuck up on the doors of the house, and every day thereafter I’d run around the house opening each day’s doors. We did, after a few years, start running out of doors.
I’ve just realised something. So far, I’ve eaten one day of my advent calendar. I still have 23 days left to go. It might not be as good as K’s home-made peanut butter cups,* but HURRAH!
* although it is a morally-uplifting fair trade advent calendar, obtained by The Mother from church.
Something feels wrong – it’s only December 1st and I’m already feeling all seasonal. Not so seasonal that I’ve started wrapping presents or writing cards, but seasonal nevertheless. Colleague M has already started putting up Christmas decorations. Big Dave is telling everyone what he’s getting his dad, and The Manager In Charge Of The Christmas Party is spending most of her waking hours pondering over the party seating plan, shuffling names around a complex spreadsheet with everyone’s food choices listed. I’ve been exchanging emails with all the friends who are coming back here for the holiday, planning trips to the pub; and I’m not even bored of Christmas music yet. This is definitely unusual.