Christmas Cards

Earlier this month I returned from a week away to find two timely reminders that Christmas was, indeed, a-comin’. There was a pile of cards on the doormat from those who are infinitely more organised than yours truly, and a story in the papers suggesting that we give Christmas cards a miss – and that from a man of the cloth, the Right Reverend Bishop of Reading Dr Stephen Cottrell.
And for a moment, I was torn.
The Right Rev had a point after all, with his claims that the hustle and bustle, stress and strain of the season of goodwill to all men takes its toll on all and sundry, and clouds the real meaning of Christmas. And yes, cards do gather on the mat, multiply in the hall, and take over mantelpieces, shelves and walls. We, at Orgill Towers, are so short of those aforementioned resting places that ours end up Blue-Tacked on doors, even though every year I visualise them cascading from scarlet velvet ribbon, or nestling in a purpose-designed holder shaped like a Norwegian spruce.
Anyway, that moment of indecision was short-lived. After all, I’d actually made the effort and already spent the cost of a few of bottles of gin on some three-for-the-price-of-two charity designs (I missed last January’s sales), given himself instructions to revise the computer-printed addresses, which was something to do while I was away, and his sole contribution to anything bordering on the Christmas build-up. And then there were all those people out there who we never see from one year’s end to the next, expecting the usual missive.
So I girded my loins and set to with a will. Well, at least the first dozen or so were approached with something bordering on enthusiasm. But doesn’t it pall? I’m not sufficiently organised enough to compile that new-kid-on-the-block, the Round Robin, so it behoves me to write little messages in each – even though I’ve probably seen or spoken to the recipients the day before they plop through their letterboxes. I run out of witty/deep and meaningful/clever things to say, can rarely refer to their family members such as grandchildren because I can’t remember their names, and at our age, there’s always the danger that somebody on the receiving end has died, and nobody’s thought to let us know.
Then there’s the price of the postage, which amounts to a few bottles of Schweppes, and the worry that the Scouts know their way around Derby when you’ve contributed to their dyb-dyb-dyb and woggle fund. Oh dear, against my better judgement, I’m warming to Dr Cottrell’s advice by the minute. But then, he also made an almighty faux-pas by suggesting : "Instead of expensive presents, why not hand out a jar of home-made marmalade or pickled onions?"
I may take his point, though I’d rather settle for a luxurious, if useless, frippery any day, and clearly, the man has never suffered the mess the making of marmalade produces, or sat at the kitchen table, eyes and nose streaming, as he’s peeled a few pounds of shallots. So for this year anyway, I’ve dismissed him in bah-humbug mode, and taken advantage of the credit crunch crisis and every up-to-50-per-cent-off offer in pursuit of that Christmas gift list I am, one day, determined to trim.
I won’t, though, any more than I’ll stop the annual chore of card-writing, because although the spirit of Christmas may be lost in the mists of time, there is no greater joy than giving. Or, in fact, receiving. May I wish our readers not only a merry Christmas and a happy and healthy New Year, but also say to those not on our card list, I trust the grandkids are thriving, your piles are receding, your new dentures fit, and your home-made pickled onions never go soggy. Or is that a Round Robin too far?
end