Diary of a Christmas Meltdown

Blimey. It’s a tinsel jungle out there. I made the fatal error of ‘popping into town’, only to be overwhelmed by a tsunami of shoppers. All just as crazed as me. We lost a few good men in Poundland, but they went down bravely, cold fists clutching the last Chocolate Orange. Christmas casualties, taken in their prime for the sake of 100 English pennies. I could weep.

Of course the panic began many hours ago. I awoke, sweating, arms still twitching with the effort of crossing off lists made in my sleep. (Those dreams don’t organize themselves). Cautiously opened one eye and assessed the scene, tossing aside hubby’s attempts to wish me a good morning. No my friend. Remember what day it is. Forget niceties. Valuable energy must be conserved for commands – or er, requests. Now put that kettle on.

By 9.30, I realised I was far too busy to read the Bible, get washed or do anything except get really really angry.
You have no idea the pressures I am under. So let me take you through ’em.

For starters, it’s Christmas Eve and we’re facing the threat of imminent starvation, what with the shops being closed for at least 24 hours. Despite the fact that no-one likes turkey, we’ve got one anyway. Enough to make us miserable till 2012 at least. Brandy butter, crackers and vegetables are also Go. (Unless of course the Sprout Thief targets us in the night. Best get another few sacks – just in case. If nothing else it’ll be sweet sweet revenge on Boxing Day, as we get our own back on the windy kitties. Who’s laughing now you sulphurous furbags).

Then there’s presents. Which moron designed this tape dispenser? It’s not fair that I should have to wrap gifts for the people I love. Where’s the selection box? (What do you mean you ate it? DO YOU THINK IT’S CHRISTMAS?! NOT FOR YOU. Get back to peeling sprouts).

Item one, presents. Who set this stupid gift budget? Er – never mind. It was a great idea in theory, but I’ve spent too much. Where’s the receipt? No – I’m – two pounds and sixty pence short of the ten quid limit.
That’s worse. They’ll think I’m Scrooge. I could add in the bath salts, but then that’s going three pence over. Dream on.
(Wait a minute, I am Scrooge).

It’s now eleven o’clock and the Weetabix is starting to wear off. Welcome to my World, dominated by the vicissitudes of caffeine, fury and plunging blood sugar.

By lunch the roller coaster shows no sign of slowing down. What’s next? Ah – church.

Oh for goodness’ sake – it’s Christmas Eve! That’s the problem with religion – takes over absolutely everything. Even the Winter Solstice isn’t sacred. Doesn’t anyone else have turkeys to stuff? And I know exactly what it’ll be like. The usual suspects, all warm and friendly and nice. Carols. A sermon. But that’s fixable. If I bring my notebook I can work out a present opening schedule during the Bible bit. And if I leave early I can run the hoover round. Actually, let’s think this through – it’s the Doctor Who Christmas special. God’s not gonna want me to miss that – Catherine Jenkins is in it! And they’re not repeating it till Boxing Day. I’ve been running myself ragged – tonight’s the night for some long-overdue Me Time.

It’s what Jesus would have wanted, I’m sure.