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It was my turn, dammit. No matter what, we’d spend Christmas with my folks It was my turn, dammit. No matter what, we’d spend Christmas with my folks
(25 days later)
It was all my fault. It usually is. When you’re married with young children but still haven’t managed the transition to hosting Christmas yourself, the question of whose parents you join for Christmas can be a tense one. And here’s the thing. I was determined that fairness meant we would alternate: Christmas day with my wife’s parents one year, and with my own the next.It was all my fault. It usually is. When you’re married with young children but still haven’t managed the transition to hosting Christmas yourself, the question of whose parents you join for Christmas can be a tense one. And here’s the thing. I was determined that fairness meant we would alternate: Christmas day with my wife’s parents one year, and with my own the next.
So there was this one year when Alice’s parents were coming down from Northumberland, where they live, to London, where we live, to spend Christmas with her two sisters and their partners and kids – right round the corner from us. But, dammit, it was MY year.So there was this one year when Alice’s parents were coming down from Northumberland, where they live, to London, where we live, to spend Christmas with her two sisters and their partners and kids – right round the corner from us. But, dammit, it was MY year.
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It occasioned what I’m pretty sure is the longest marital argument we’ve had. It started in mid-August, and reached a rolling boil on Christmas morning. But there were various peaks and troughs. It became clear, for instance, in the run-up to the big day, that we were out of sync with most of my own siblings – so rather than have a full complement of Leiths around the brussels sprouts, we’d be a thinner crowd. And my mum and dad said they didn’t mind much if we all got together on another day. But I was adamant. It had to be Christmas. Christmas day was different. It was a point of principle.It occasioned what I’m pretty sure is the longest marital argument we’ve had. It started in mid-August, and reached a rolling boil on Christmas morning. But there were various peaks and troughs. It became clear, for instance, in the run-up to the big day, that we were out of sync with most of my own siblings – so rather than have a full complement of Leiths around the brussels sprouts, we’d be a thinner crowd. And my mum and dad said they didn’t mind much if we all got together on another day. But I was adamant. It had to be Christmas. Christmas day was different. It was a point of principle.
Still, because Alice’s parents live much farther away and were only going to be in town for a few days, and were in any case staying with us, I grudgingly conceded that it wouldn’t be the end of the world if we just went home for Christmas day itself. Christmas lunch itself. But that was my Theresa May-style red line. We would, one way or another, spend Christmas lunch with my family. It was only fair.Still, because Alice’s parents live much farther away and were only going to be in town for a few days, and were in any case staying with us, I grudgingly conceded that it wouldn’t be the end of the world if we just went home for Christmas day itself. Christmas lunch itself. But that was my Theresa May-style red line. We would, one way or another, spend Christmas lunch with my family. It was only fair.
And by this stage, friends, I was sticking to my guns. In fact, I was gorilla-glued to my guns. Even when it became clear that, rather than host Christmas lunch at the family home, my folks had decided that, what with only two of their children’s families coming, they’d drive over and join my auntie’s Christmas party at her house in Gloucestershire. Well, I adore my auntie, as all right-thinking nephews do, and it might besides be a rare chance to see my cousins, so dammit that’s where we’d go. Oh. One or both of the cousins had made other arrangements? NEVER MIND.And by this stage, friends, I was sticking to my guns. In fact, I was gorilla-glued to my guns. Even when it became clear that, rather than host Christmas lunch at the family home, my folks had decided that, what with only two of their children’s families coming, they’d drive over and join my auntie’s Christmas party at her house in Gloucestershire. Well, I adore my auntie, as all right-thinking nephews do, and it might besides be a rare chance to see my cousins, so dammit that’s where we’d go. Oh. One or both of the cousins had made other arrangements? NEVER MIND.
So, on Christmas morning, in a mood that has (ever since my late grandmother single-handedly lifted a car out of a ditch in a seasonal rage) been known in my family as “Christmassy”, we bid goodbye to my parents-in-law, and my sisters-in-law, and my children’s closest cousins. We left them in a cosy room, aglow with the soft light of the Christmas tree, and scattered with presents, and warm with good cheer, and 10 minutes from our house. We loaded the children into our car and set off on the two-and-a-half-hour drive to my aunt’s house.So, on Christmas morning, in a mood that has (ever since my late grandmother single-handedly lifted a car out of a ditch in a seasonal rage) been known in my family as “Christmassy”, we bid goodbye to my parents-in-law, and my sisters-in-law, and my children’s closest cousins. We left them in a cosy room, aglow with the soft light of the Christmas tree, and scattered with presents, and warm with good cheer, and 10 minutes from our house. We loaded the children into our car and set off on the two-and-a-half-hour drive to my aunt’s house.
I can’t remember, mercifully, the conversation we had on the way. But it was not such as is commonly carolled in the sentimental stories of Yuletide. I think words such as “divorce” and “drive me home this instant” and “worst Christmas ever” and “stop the car” were merrily exchanged as we barrelled along first the motorway, and then the icy and deserted country lanes.I can’t remember, mercifully, the conversation we had on the way. But it was not such as is commonly carolled in the sentimental stories of Yuletide. I think words such as “divorce” and “drive me home this instant” and “worst Christmas ever” and “stop the car” were merrily exchanged as we barrelled along first the motorway, and then the icy and deserted country lanes.
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But nobody actually jumped out of the car, and what with all the adult shouting the children were traumatised enough to behave themselves, and we finally rocked up at my aunt’s. Which – she being a great hostess – was not an intimate family lunch but a stand-up-and-stroll-about party for about 50 people, all of them very nice but most of them a generation older and unknown to us. And she’d decided that instead of doing turkey we’d all have slow-cooked shredded shoulder of pork and apple sauce in pancakes; an Anglo-Saxon riff on the Chinese duck classic, I suppose.But nobody actually jumped out of the car, and what with all the adult shouting the children were traumatised enough to behave themselves, and we finally rocked up at my aunt’s. Which – she being a great hostess – was not an intimate family lunch but a stand-up-and-stroll-about party for about 50 people, all of them very nice but most of them a generation older and unknown to us. And she’d decided that instead of doing turkey we’d all have slow-cooked shredded shoulder of pork and apple sauce in pancakes; an Anglo-Saxon riff on the Chinese duck classic, I suppose.
Which would have been fine – except that they’d had a bit of a disaster (someone had innocently turned the oven off that morning) so the meltingly slow-cooked pork was now sliced pork emergency flash-fried by hand. And it was buckwheat pancakes – which, it turns out, are hard to keep warm if you’re cooking for dozens of people. So there we stood: eating toughish, coldish pork out of softish, coldish pancakes, standing up surrounded by strangers, and sober because driving. And after that we had to turn round and spend another two and a half hours in the car.Which would have been fine – except that they’d had a bit of a disaster (someone had innocently turned the oven off that morning) so the meltingly slow-cooked pork was now sliced pork emergency flash-fried by hand. And it was buckwheat pancakes – which, it turns out, are hard to keep warm if you’re cooking for dozens of people. So there we stood: eating toughish, coldish pork out of softish, coldish pancakes, standing up surrounded by strangers, and sober because driving. And after that we had to turn round and spend another two and a half hours in the car.
But you know what? The divorce never took place. My wife was so pleased to have been proved right that all her rancour and resentment melted away, and we laughed together all the way home.But you know what? The divorce never took place. My wife was so pleased to have been proved right that all her rancour and resentment melted away, and we laughed together all the way home.
• Sam Leith is literary editor of the Spectator• Sam Leith is literary editor of the Spectator
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