Bah humbug? Why I refuse to let Christmas make me miserable

Christmas can be cruel for those who grieve, says Anne Atkins – but for everyone else, misery is often self-inflicted. Everything is far more optional than we think

I hate Christmas!”

“Why?” I was genuinely intrigued. Especially at a Christmas party – lots of singing, prosecco flowing, tables longing to be unburdened of dips, canapes, sandwiches, sushi in the shape of a fir tree, and mince pies. Not much to dislike, surely?

“All the presents you have to get,” my companion moaned.

“So,” this stumped me, “why give them if you don’t want to?”

“The children expect it.”

I laughed. “No sympathy from me! Who brought your children up to expect presents?”

“My wife.”

“Why not let her organise them then?”

“Well, she does.” Words failed me.

There are two kinds of hating Christmas. The first has my full compassion.

My father, after a lifetime of joyful, mostly working Christmases – his own father was a rector, he was a chorister and then head of a choir school himself – found, in his 10th decade and into his second century, that Christmas had become a time of grief.

He lost his best friend in the war, my adored mother in her nineties, and lived to an age when all his contemporaries had predeceased him. Even indoors, winter cut cruelly into his frail and ancient bones.

Nevertheless, he always put on a brave face and gave generously of his time and talents, often travelling through snow and far from home to support us or others. But he missed my dear mother acutely, and all the jollity and celebrations brought back happier memories. For those who face loss and loneliness, Christmas can be a truly terrible time.

The other kind of hating Christmas, however, is pure Scrooge.

Some people are simply determined to be miserable, no matter how often one says: “It’s voluntary.” There is no Christmas police. Nobody is compelling you to eat turkey, wear a paper crown, or listen to the King.

Some people are simply determined to be miserable at Christmas (Getty/iStock)

Way back years ago, with children underfoot and living in a working vicarage, I realised I simply couldn’t get everything done in time. Skimming my list, wondering what could go, I decided not to send any cards.

Instantly, I gained half a week. Wow.

More remarkably, perhaps, no one said: “Oi, where’s my Christmas card?” I didn’t lose friends – or not that I noticed. No one seemed offended. The Post Office didn’t go out of business on my account. So I never sent another again. (Well, almost. I continued to post a card to our cleaner from my childhood and my bedder from university, while they lived.)

See? It had been optional all along.

A year or two later, the realisation that I’d run out of time didn’t hit till the evening of the 23rd. We were going out for dinner when I remembered we’d been given tickets for King’s on Christmas Eve – and I hadn’t bought any presents for the children.

I slumped on the stairs and burst into tears. They crowded around – bless them – hugging and reassuring me that they didn’t mind at all. Since then, I’ve not only realised what terrific offspring we have but also largely focused on the food while their father chooses presents.

My favourite Christmas rebellion was more recent.

“Anne,” said my bossy neighbour (the one who told me off because our bins were still out on Sunday). “Your door has no Christmas wreath!”

I can’t remember whether she actually said, “You’re bringing shame on the street,” but I wouldn’t put it past her.

“That’s right,” I retorted self-righteously. “It’s currently the season of Advent. Our decorations will go up on Christmas Eve.” As they always do. Obviously. Nya-na.

There may come a time when, like my father, I suffer losses so precious that Christmas holds dread for me. Until then, I intend to enjoy it thoroughly – and thoroughly in the way I choose.

I love singing. Last night, eight or 10 of us crowded into our local and sang carols for an hour while the landlord gave us free drinks. Part-singing always impresses those who don’t read music, and he thought we sounded terrific.

On Boxing Day, we habitually play a very rowdy, muddy game of hockey with sticks – and rules (if any) – that go back to my childhood. We share presents for the full 12 days, a tradition we adopted in the vicarage when parishioners showered our children with far too many to open after all services were over, food eaten, and charades played.

Admittedly, a few aspects can’t be avoided: muzak in supermarkets and fairy lights in November. But public celebrations don’t dog only Christmas.

I’m not a football fan and don’t choose the hysteria which sometimes attends it – screens taking over pubs and street-hooting after some victory. But I recognise it matters to others and recently even watched the Lionesses with my husband and daughter, and understood some of the appeal.

And it’s not a huge imposition, is it? Certainly not worth moaning about.