Susan Morrison: It's time we reclaimed Christmas for ourselves

Published on Friday 20 November 2009 10:14

I see it's the time of the year to start moaning about Christmas. It's too commercial, it's nothing to do with religion, it's just for the kids, it's a lot of work etc. Well, cards on the table, I love Christmas. Too commercial? Read Dickens. The whole point of his A Christmas Carol – A User Guide To Christmas, is to free the dosh from Ebenezer's wallet – you'll notice he doesn't get in anywhere till he turns up with a huge turkey and an armload of pressies.

To do with religion? I don't think it was. It's an ancient excuse for bright lights and good food in the mid-winter. Just for kids? Who wants to grow up anyway?

Christmas is a lot of work though, particularly for mums. Whose fault is that? Well, actually, it's ours. Women used to laugh at men and their competitive instinct, but that was before we conned ourselves into the ferocious contest that is How To Have The Perfect Christmas.

Take the presents. My mum used to wrap Santa's bounty in cheap bright coloured paper. Presents were then opened by hysterical kids who turned into human paper shredders, who didn't even notice the wrapping, but today's gifts must be lovingly swaddled in a shiny horror that would make Dolly Parton blanche, then be adorned with ribbons, pine cones, and matching tags.

My father's Christmas job was to carefully unwrap the lights, get out the battery thing with the two wires hanging off it and check the bulbs. Those were the Christmas lights. One string, three colours, from Woolies. Now we need a dazzling display that can be seen from space. For all we know that great Tharg Battle Fleet is sitting off the shoulder of Orion just waiting for the invasion signal of giant laughing Santas, Snowmen and Rudolphs on the roofs of Sighthill. Bring it on, Tharg. You can invade, but you can't park.

All of this is nothing beside the Christmas Table. Dinner was once slung happily on variable china and eaten with mismatched cutlery.

Now hang your head in shame if you do not sprinkle glittery bits on your co-ordinated table cloth, cutlery and china . . . I'm assuming the glittery bits are non-toxic. It's a bit embarrassing to have your guests slump face first in the festive Tiramisu. Tiramisu, ha!

Whatever happened to dumpling, while I'm on the subject? My gran used to make a dumpling that could stop a cavalry charge, and how many fancy foreign puddings do you know that can be flung in the frying pan and served up with fried eggs and brown sauce for breakfast the next day?

So, Scotland's mums, let's take Christmas back. Kids don't care what the wrapping looks like. Who cares if your table cloth has a curry stain on it that looks like Margaret Thatcher?

Get your presents in nice and early, buy a bottle of fizzy plonk for yourselves, order in a takeaway and sit back and have fun on Christmas day.

&#149 A FEW weeks ago, the husband was rushed into A&E. We enjoyed ourselves so much he had me rushed in on Sunday.

I'd forgotten how to breathe – well, I have a busy life. Once again I watched the might of the NHS, only this time it was bearing down on me. They gave me an oxygen mask. I pretended I was a fighter pilot. The staff regarded the husband with sympathy and addressed most of their questions to him, assuming he was more of a carer.

They put me in an Observation Ward. The main Observation they seemed to be trying to make was 'How grumpy does a Morrison get if you wake her twice an hour to ask how she's feeling?' The answer is, of course, very.

I suspect the results are going into something new called the Edinburgh Grumpy Scale, which will range from 'slightly miffed' to 'a forthright letter aimed at The Editor of the Evening News'.

I said as much to the young nurse who was just too cheery at 2am. "Oh, I hope so," she said. Glasgow has the coma scale, Edinburgh should have something. She said at the top range of the Glasgow coma scale you don't react when they stick needles in you and slap you about. Pretty much a Weegie night out, I wheezed.

We started laughing, and she said not to worry. These incredible people care for our sick and scared, yet we have the cheek to pay them a banker's biscuit budget.

The next day a charming specialist came along and told me he thought I had 'late adult onset asthma.' Which is a rubbish name. Whatever happened to cankers, buboes, chorea, yellow fever, scarlet John, and the mighty black death? 'Late adult onset asthma'? Named by committee. I told him so. Well, I tried to.

The roots of Scrooge

&#149 Bit of triv for the festive table. In 1841, Charles Dickens spotted a gravestone in the Canongate Kirkyard for Ebenezer Scroggie, Meal Merchant. Chas misread it as 'Mean Merchant', and the tale of Scrooge was inspired. Pass the mints.