Two days before Christmas, I decided it was time to have a chat with the Four Little Seymours. All of them were, unusually, together; a captive audience as we were driving back from last minute shopping and hospital appointments.
The conversation was prompted earlier that day by me realising with a sigh that they are all growing up so fast. I had left them round a table in Costa, after we had indulged in some festive and extortionate beverages and cakes, which, I must say, didn’t taste as good as they looked on the billboard photo – somewhat disappointing.
I did my usual trick of parking a million miles away from the shops. I never mind a walk, and what we saved on parking , we could knock off our Costa bill. But I didn’t need to drag the four little Seymours out in the cold and dark to get the car, and so I left them there, in the warm, whilst I played chauffeuse. I hoped they would chat, laugh, reminisce about Christmases past, bond or, at the very least, talk to each other.
But as I drove past Costa to find the pickup point, I turned my head briefly to spy the four not so little Seymours where I left them, each independently staring at those f@cking micro computers I have stupidly supplied them with, hunched over and engrossed in what I can only imagine was utter, mindless b@ll@cks.
I decided stoically not to get cross. It was Christmas, after all.
On our way home, the conversation turned to the big day, and in particular, Father Christmas and his stockings.
I decided it was time to tentatively suggest that maybe we were approaching a point when we would not expect Him to be delivering them much longer. After all, I said, one of the Seymours is too old, one is too nonchalant, one is to whiny and the other one is too naughty.
As I spoke, I could sense not only the disappointment but also the indignation in the car. The temperature dropped. There was a moment of silence but then – protests. Too old? Too naughty? Too nonchalant? They could not believe their ears. I started to wonder if I had got it all wrong. Maybe FC is expected to bring stockings to twenty year-olds? I don’t get one, I protested. But to no avail.
I explained that the elves had outdone themselves this year with the advent calendars; bespoke Christmas charm bracelets with the odd gothic horror pendant thrown in for good measure – one for each day of December – no mean feat! But no. Apparently, stockings are THE BEST bit about Christmas, however much effort, thought and expense “the elves” put in to the advent calendars – who knew a satsuma and a box of toothpaste could be so coveted. Not I.
I drove home in the dark. World war three was about to erupt behind me, as umbridge was taken at what they perceived as character assassinations, but what I had thought were simply mildly humorous and affectionately allocated character traits. And when I started to recall the time when, years ago, one of the little Seymours had become very upset when we received a video message from Santa at the Portable North Pole (of all places) mentioning how she needed to be kinder to her siblings, and there were tears for hours, I realised I was on very dangerous ground. It became clear; the subject of He Who Delivers The Presents is taboo. Whatever we choose to call him.
The Four Little Seymours are not stupid. They know how the Christmas magic works. I have told them – if you state that you don’t believe, it won’t happen, thereby committing myself to a lifetime of elf duty, with little chance of reprieve. As they have not declared that they do not believe, they know they’ve got me over a barrell. It would take a hard-nosed Grinch to unsay those words. And Mini Seymour is only twelve…
Luckily, they’re good kids, and they do seem quite chuffed with Aquafresh, deodorant and an easy peeler, so I guess it’s all good. But the more years that pass, the more Grinchy I become, and I feel increasingly tempted to pull the plug on certain traditions, and resort to good old fashioned honesty. But I know for sure sure that one night of “helping Santa” filling up large socks and creeping about on his behalf is far easier than twenty four nights of getting into bed after midnight and realising I had forgotten to do his bidding and select, customise and secrete four Christmas charms into boxes within boxes, whilst trying not to be seen, just on the off-chance that Mini Seymour really does think that The Big Man actually sends small beings into houses throughout December to bring in yet more clutter..
I only forgot once. And got it wrong a few times (apparently, skeleton hand charms are not Christmassy), but the end result is a lovely, eclectic, mostly Christmassy charm bracelet that can never be replicated! Nor repeated.
Stockings it is!
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