If you visited our little South London flat yesterday, you might have wondered where Christmas went.
We have a patch of greenery and a handful of lights. But there’s no bird in the fridge to haunt every meal; no parents clamoring to be entertained or tweezers to appease; little wrapping paper to recycle; nor a single Quality Street package in evidence; and no – repeat no – annual angst.
Instead, Terence and I spent our not-so-great day doing very little, observing the handful of traditions we forged over eight years together. We eat Terence’s now famous nut roast. I’m the vegetarian, but tradition dictates that he cooks to make up for millennia of patriarchal oppression (and because I make more of it during the year).
There was a Claridge’s Christmas pudding and a wonderful Epoisses cheese. We ate like kings, but without that craziness that leaves everyone bloated, drunk and furious. We both don’t like excess, our gifts are always thoughtful little offerings rather than crazy splurges.
If you visited our small south London apartment yesterday you might have wondered where Christmas went (Pictured: Hannah Betts, right)
Earlier this year, he planted bulbs to grow on Christmas Day, made lovely bowls for us to eat breakfast, and got my favorite panforte.
I delighted him with old books and items from Anya Hindmarch’s pop-up stationery, and I sported his late mother’s wedding brooch.
In the current interlude between Boxing Day and the New Year, there will be more established rituals: winter dog walks, visits to museums in search of ancient relics, trips to art galleries, getaways to the opera, reading novels and tea by the fireside. Festive, yes, but in a contained, traditional form only for me, my partner and our whippet – and that’s pure unadulterated bliss.
Yet for me, 51, it’s as complete as the celebrations.
Since childhood, I had always been ambivalent about Christmas – aware of its stressful lows almost as much as its sparkling highs. Anxious and hollow-eyed, it’s not for nothing that I’ve always been interpreted as a restless Mary in the Nativity plays.
Ever since I was a kid, I’ve always been ambivalent about Christmas – aware of its stressful lows almost as much as its sparkling highs (Pictured: Hannah Betts on December 22)
Later, for almost two decades, I gave up on the holiday season altogether.
I loved my mother and she was a great parent in many ways. Nevertheless, Christmas was an annual ordeal that began with her first inquiries about our future on the August holiday and ended with recriminations that lasted until spring. The food was outstanding; so is passive aggression—and aggression proper.
We’ve lost track of the wild arguments and snipes disguised as gifts. Curtains were set on fire by Christmas puddings, Christmas trees toppled by dogs and epic confrontations began.
It was “a lot”, as Millennials say – too much. As the eldest of five children, people always tell me how wonderful it must be to be part of a big family. In truth, it looked like a Game Of Thrones in pajamas.
There are happy memories, but even those now feel buried under a great snow of stress. I can’t stand adults who blame their parents for all their ills; but when it comes to Christmas, my anxiety remains visceral.
In my early 30s, came even more drama, and my mom kicked me out of the house for better – read worse – part of a decade for a transgression I didn’t commit. The rest of my family celebrated Christmas. . .only without me.
It was lonely, heartbreaking. So I made necessity a virtue and gave up on Yule altogether. Frankly, it was a relief: the only advantage of an otherwise tortuous situation.
I could come out of the closet about my Christmas phobia. No turkey, no tantrums, no trauma. My truck with the festive assault was finished – and good riddance.
And then I fell in love with a guy who loved everything that gave me the most problems: family and parties, all those endless days of forced laughter. If Betts’ Christmases were full of sparring, the sound of my beloved ones as if straight from Central Casting: a traditional British Yule, played in the country manor required.
Terence went to boarding school when he was eight years old. His mother died when he was 22, making Christmas something wonderful and a poignant longing, from which he felt prematurely torn away.
To add to the irony, Terence and I met at a Christmas party. I was 43 and had just gotten sober; he, 40, a tall, dark, handsome foreign textbook.
We both returned to our parents during this holiday, in my case for the first time in over a decade. It would be our last. On Christmas Eve, my mother was diagnosed with terminal cancer; on New Year’s Eve, her father died of a heart attack. Our family Christmases were over. It was time to create our own traditions.
For a while, Terence gave in to my desire to get away from it all, and we ran away at the end of December. That first year, we flew to Sicily to pretend the Yule case wasn’t happening.
Twelve months later, my father was also dead. Distraught, we found refuge in an elegant Parisian Airbnb, for a non-Christmas of art, mini pastries and opera. Another year we headed to Berlin. And so, we invented new shared rituals.
Four years after we met, we moved in together. Three months later, we made the drastic decision (for me) to stay home for the festivities – our home – with our new puppy, Pimlico.
It was my first runaway free Christmas in 17 years and I needed to take some baby steps.
Boulophobe, I erected a tiny resolutely pagan tree, adorned with a string of silver bells. Terence went to the other extreme and created giant snowscapes of wreaths and garlands. As day approached, he calmed my nerves with the wood-smoke candle he had brought with us to Sicily, Paris and Berlin – the smell of our mutual Christmas.
We see the strange friend, but I still don’t feel up to the sociable evening that Terence longs for. Beth, her sister, who clearly welcomes a coruscating Yule, is also extremely generous in indulging my phobia. We meet before or after, but not during, when I have to disappear – same with my own brothers and sisters.
Today Terence is going to read me something that we both like. Or we’ll watch a movie (non-Christmas) under a blanket with the dog. One of us could cook something, or we’ll walk through Chinatown.
We take the stillness and nothingness that others allow themselves in this time of Twixmas between Boxing Day and New Years – and create an exquisite void out of it all. I wouldn’t say I learned to love Christmas – my anxiety surrounding it is too deep. But, I love our Christmas, and that’s all that matters. Thanks to Terence, it is now a time I look forward to rather than dread.
READ MORE:
JAN MOIR: Spare a thought for Carrie, now forced to plan a new life neither of them wanted
Toddler among three injured in triple Christmas Day horror car crash as man fights for his life and two arrested for reckless driving
King Charles takes charge of Royal Christmas: Fergie will have lunch with her family at Sandringham as Harry and Meghan stay away, but Prince Andrew will NOT join others on the Christmas Day walk until church
Comments are closed.