Will’s World: Christmas ghosts perform a minor miracle
© Will Evans I’m not certain why it happens, but it’s hard not to be curmudgeonly as a man when you hit your mid-40s.
One minute you’re a ray of youthful sunshine, hopelessly optimistic for the future.
The next you’ve turned into your dad, rampaging round the house switching off lights, turning down the thermostat, and forcefully using the word “racket” to describe any music produced since the early 2000s.
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About the author
I suppose when you’ve paid for enough extortionately priced pairs of children’s shoes, struggled to keep your blood pressure in check when you’ve once again been put on hold by some smug-sounding berk in a call centre, and verbally tussled with a variety of doctors’ receptionists over the years, life begins to wear you down.
All shook up
It’s not only us chaps, though. I’ve known plenty of grumpy older women too, not least my sainted and much-missed grandmother, who firmly believed that the downfall of modern society began with the arrival of Elvis Presley and his swinging hips.
I’ve been contemplating this lately, because in a conversation that might have come straight out of a festive film, the youngest of our numerous daughters said to the present Mrs Evans in a sad little voice: “I don’t think Daddy likes Christmas anymore.”
The thing is, she’s right; I don’t. It’s all too commercial and false, and I struggle to find the true meaning of it, especially in these fractious times.
Peace on earth and goodwill to all men? Have you seen the news lately?
It wasn’t always this way; many of my happiest memories are associated with the festive season.
I vividly remember my little sister and me rushing through our jobs on Christmas morning 1986, and bursting into the kitchen afterwards to find two sledges wrapped in bright yellow meal bags.
A few months later it snowed, and the old man pulled us round the field on long ropes behind our MF 290. It was probably the best day of our young lives.
As a teenager I received my first puppy as a gift one year – a border collie named Taff, who remains the best dog I’ve ever had – and for years Christmas Eve was a legendary night out, as all of us Young Farmers piled into the village pub in a valiant and selfless attempt to support the local economy by drinking it dry.
Little angel
Then there were all the Christmas performances that our numerous daughters were involved in, with their ever-so-proud parents looking on.
My favourite memory associated with that time was when daughter number 3, starring as the Angel Gabriel in her nursery school nativity, chucked an almighty tantrum and steadfastly refused to go on stage, throwing the entire show into comedy chaos.
Never was an archangel more criminally misrepresented.
Anyway, wounded by our youngest’s comment, in a transformation not seen since Scrooge joyfully awoke after his night with the ghost of Christmas future, I’ve decided to make the effort for her and fully embrace this holiday season.
Only this morning, the old man and I visited our local Christmas decoration wholesaler to stock up on lights and tinsel for our first festive tractor run on 23 December.
While there were certainly some sharp intakes of breath at the checkout, we’re both looking forward to taking part and spreading a little cheer locally.
The following night, after everything’s done, I’ll sit by the tree, drink a glass of single malt and listen to my favourite festive album, Elvis Presley’s Christmas Peace. Sorry, Gran.
Merry Christmas everyone.
