Advent Calendar

My wife Kate is a Christmas fiend -- she's a sucker for the whole thing. One year she bought me some tasteful socks...you know the ones, snowflakes or Rudolf or a snowman on...fortunately no musical ones. When the next December rolled around I got no peace until --muttering 'bah, humbug--' I put on my Christmas socks. So relieved was I that she let up on the Scrooge jibes that it's become a tradition: at the start of December, my ordinary socks go away 'til January, and the Christmas ones come out. (I have little speckled snowflakes on this morning -- thanks for asking)

Come December 12th, the Yule Lads start to appear. The what? You cry.

Think of Pratchett's the Nac Mac Feegle but with Icelandic accents and obsessed with food and booze and perving, and you have the Icelandic elves who crop up -mostly off screen- in my story 'Footsteps in The Snow.' Sodden with Brennivin, Icelandic potato vodka, or whatever other hooch they can lay their sticky little fingers on, they arrive at the rate of one a night in Icelandic households, pinching sausages, licking out pans and, knowing these drunks, flashing at the milkmaids...nah, wrong Christmas story. Though they do have one called Peeping Tom. We have hand-carved replicas of them bought on various visits to Iceland, or bought for Kate as presents by our friends up there. One comes out of its box every night from the 12th to the 24th, and on Christmas night, the first of them goes back.

By about mid-Christmas Kate is getting the Christmas crockery down from the loft. Every plate, cup, bowl --even the teapot for Christmas's sake-- has a Yuletide logo'd alternate. I half-expect to come home one night and find our spaniel Alice has been exchanged for a dwarf reindeer. A particularly grumpy but vocal dwarf reindeer, at that, if it's anything like our dog.

At about the same time Kate starts cooking, beginning with the hundred and twenty odd mince pies that she makes each year. Yeah, I know what you're thinking, but they're for the family. Not even I can eat a hundred plus mince pies -- in fact, I rarely get a look in.

A week before Christmas and there's either a Carol Service to attend, we're usually running presents down to those family we won't see at Christmas, or both. The night before -or after-- the excursions the Christmas tree goes up, and deccies start to festoon the place. We've mounted a raid on our mistletoe supply (hint: apple trees are good for growing mistletoe) and there are screams coming from the kitchen as Kate runs out of sherry and/or brandy -- for cooking, of course.

The night before Kate goes to Midnight Service, usually with her mother while I, erm, guard the house. I used to go with her, but was banned after the year I inadvertantly kept switching the lights on the tree on and off by leaning against the switch in my efforts to stay awake.

Come the big day, there's huge anticipation about the highlight of the whole holiday. The Doctor Who Christmas Special! Lie in front of the TV, stuffed to bursting -but still finding room for that odd Quality Street, glass in hand, and lean back and wait for...dah dah dah dah...dah dah dah dah...dah dah dah dah...whoeeeooo...

...and then it's all over for another year. Alhough we do get DW Confidential, and re-runs, and re-runs of DW Confidential.

Well, that's our Christmas.

Though here's one last thought. Compared to some, we're quite sane. We keep all but the hardiest of our decorations indoors, so they don't catch a chill. Not all of our neighbours are quite so restrained. This is the house up the road. And their deccies go up on November 13th...so at least I can console myself with the thought that at least we wait until the same month.

Colin's brilliant SF novels, Winter Song and Damage Time are available worldwide, now.