As the undeniable lure of Christmas drags us into its clutches, I finally embark on the arduous journey of my Christmas shopping. Jokes aside, I love this inevitable seasonal task; retail therapy is no longer a selfish indulgence, but a gift to others. Shop Assistants smile happily in early December as they hit high sales targets. You can almost smell the joy of the CEOs as the insatiable strength of the British shopper strikes again, credit card flashing, January's bill a distant and unimportant prospect.
In our household, the stocking is always the highlight of Christmas Day; somewhat sad considering that it comes at the very beginning, but adorable too that even when we are adult the satsuma-laced delights of my father's old socks can be the best moment of our year. John Lewis makes me doubt that others feel the same. 'Only £40', declares a label next to a box of Origins goodies. £40? For an impersonal gift like that? I can understand the desperation-fuelled buy on Christmas Eve, perhaps, but this early on in December? Where's the thoughtfulness? We still have time to make presents, for goodness' sake. Each year my best friend and I hand craft each other gifts, and this year I plan to continue our young tradition. In an age where few of us know how to sew a stitch or bake a cake, this can prove tricky (although I believe my culinary skills have improved somewhat since I made her a rather unsuccessful jar of Peanut Butter last year).
An even younger tradition seems to be the buckets of snow that dump on us as winter approaches. Last year I almost didn't receive my university acceptance letter (thankfully someone invented email to save me) and the respite from an exhausting six weeks of anxiety. As the snow continues to fall on the Derbyshire ground, I think, for the first time in my life, that perhaps the best present I could wish for would be a non-White (perhaps it would be called a Grey?) run up to Christmas, one that meant I'd been able to drive a little beforehand, and perhaps finally passed my driving test.
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