I bumped into an acquaintance on the train yesterday, and so obviously I asked them what they were doing for Christmas. They sort of winced and said ‘Nothing much, very quiet, just the two of us at home,’ in a way that was almost apologetic. What they went on to describe - roast ham rather than turkey, a two-day list of films they were planning to watch, a walk they were going to take in Norfolk to see pink-footed geese, a specific M&S trifle - sounded like heaven.
I don’t like it that people’s lovely Tiny Christmases can get downgraded in their own minds by the imagery of what Christmas is supposed to look like - extravagantly well-populated, lavishly over-catered, with rosy-cheeked children/grandchildren gambolling in matching pyjamas, course after course of feasting and mountains of presents.
All of these things are nice, if not entirely realistic. But none of them are obligatory, and I hate the idea that some people might feel that their smaller-scale Christmas is somehow not enough. Because Tiny Christmas is great too. Tiny Christmas is charming. Tiny Christmas is the definition of quiet contentment, and who doesn’t want that?
