I know there’s a few days to go but I have nothing more to do. I’ve sent the Xmas cards (I don’t buy any presents) and the flat looks suitably festive without going the whole nine yards bearing in mind we won’t be here for Xmas.
Over the years, we’ve spent few Christmases at home and most of those were occasioned by my work commitments. Last year I actually drew up a chronological listing of our various Christmas celebrations. We’ve spent one with the outlaw – our first and last – eight with my late parents and sisters, three with friends, one in Australia, one in Arizona, one in Dubai, three in Switzerland, two in Germany, one in Spain, seven in Austria, one in Italy and 13 Home Alone.
Since we moved to France, our solitary Christmases have generally been topped and tailed with festivities with friends. Often we’ve eaten at home over the period: oysters and champagne for Christmas Eve and fois gras – sadly now forbidden – for Christmas Day lunch, after our morning ride along the coast. However, if the weather’s been inclement, we’ve happily eaten out at one of the major hotels, just as we often used to do when we lived in London.
As you may have gathered, I’m not a fan of family festivities though, given half the chance, my beloved would have spent every Christmas with my late parents. I however find it all too much: too much food, drink, television and family. Nice to do occasionally, but not every year. Of course, if we’d had children, it would probably have been different.
This year we’re heading to the sunshine and our maiden holiday together in southern Portugal where we may well stray across the border into Spain. I’ll tell you all about it in the New Year.