Memoir

Only 328 Days Until Christmas

Why nostalgia holds us back

With only 328 days until Christmas, it’s hard not to get excited. This Christmas was the best I’ve had since I was six years old, so it’s natural to look forward to the next one.

I’m fifty this year, so forty-three years was a long time to wait for another really good Christmas, but it was worth it. I spent it with my wife’s brother’s family in rural Dorset in the UK, and it was so relaxing, I could have stayed there all year.

In fact, as the British band Wizzard sang:

‘I wish it could be Christmas every day.’

You might be wondering why on earth I’m writing about Christmas at the end of January when the Northern Hemisphere is slowly shifting into spring.

To be honest, I don’t really know.

I woke up this morning with the line from The Muppet Christmas Carol, ‘One more sleep ‘til Christmas,’ in my head, and after doing a rough mental calculation, worked out it was about 330 days until Christmas.

I told my wife this fact, and she looked at me as though I had lost my mind. ‘That’s nice, Phil,’ she said, wincing. ‘Almost a whole year.’

Then went on to talk about all the things we had planned this year that would take place before Christmas. Not to mention the beautiful seasons of Spring, Summer, and Autumn.

She had a point, but I’m a sucker for nostalgia. Especially Christmas.

When I was a child, Christmas was the undisputed highlight of the year. I enjoyed ‘Spring, Summer, and Autumn’, but Christmas was the king. And that Christmas of 1980, when I was six, was the best ever.

I was still young enough to believe in Santa. But old enough to appreciate the moment. To feel the love and warmth my parents gave me as they watched me drag my sack of presents from my bedroom into theirs.

I didn’t have any brothers or sisters, so all eyes were on me as I joyfully unwrapped my presents. Later my grandparents, aunt and uncle came round for Christmas dinner and there were more presents, cheer, and laughter.

You might have had similar Christmases when you were a kid, especially if you lived in the same aspiring middle-class family as I did. No big deal you might think, loads of kids had times like that in the 70s and 80s.

And you’re right, I probably wouldn’t have thought anything of it either. Except this was the last one. Not the last Christmas ever, of course — I’m still alive. But the last Christmas as a family.

Within two years, both my mother and grandmother were dead, meaning the Christmas of 1982 consisted of me, my father and my grandfather. Even my aunt and uncle didn’t show up that year!

Depressing? Yeah, a bit.

So there you have it. You have the reason why I attach so much importance to the Christmas of 1980. It was a standout Christmas for lots of reasons — the best and the last. Like a Broadway show that goes on tour, but never captures the heights of the original.

That’s what Christmases have felt like to me since then —a Broadway show on tour in some forgotten provincial city in the Midwest. Good fun, but lacking the intensity and drama of the first.

Until this year. When I shed a skin and enjoyed Christmas once again.

Nostalgia can be a dangerous thing. Harking back to days of old can leave you paralysed. I wrote a piece on it only this weekend about my time in Granada as a young man called A Very Good Year Indeed.

It recounts the year I had in the Spanish city as a 28-year-old. Living the life of a carefree expat in my blue trousers and espadrilles. Only to suddenly curtail the experience when I inexplicably went back to the UK.

For years, I cursed this decision. I couldn’t understand the logic behind it. There was none. I was happy there, I had a job, friends — a life. So why did I leave to return ‘home’?

As I wrote in my piece:

“Why did I go back to England and end up sleeping on my mate’s couch in Nottingham?”

It really got me in a knot, and took me a while to get over it. I thought my life wouldn’t be the same again, and that I had really screwed up this time. Waking up each morning with a painful nostalgia far worse than any hangover.

I got over it. I got older and learnt to accept it. I realised that the good times are not the exclusive property of our youth. Good times can happen even when you’re older!

This is the trap I’ve fallen into many times. Believing that I could only enjoy myself when I was young. And that as the years progressed, I was resigned to a life of cloying nostalgia with absolutely nothing to look forward to. Dreaming about what it would be like if I was still living in Spain, or if my mother had never died, and on and on we go! Horrible! Pointless! Torturing yourself daily for no reason.

I’ve got over this now. Which is why I really enjoyed Christmas this year. I understand that things happen and then they end. Childhood ends. Believing in Santa Claus ends. Trips to foreign cities end. Life ends. You can’t go on dreaming about the past, chastising yourself for a decision you did or didn’t make. Firstly, it’s foolish, and secondly, it isn’t going to make things any better. You can’t control things, and you shouldn’t even try.

I’ve stopped looking back, stopped regretting, stopped cursing, stopped wondering. I’ve found peace with the decisions I’ve made and take them for what they are. Now my days are as pleasant as all the previous days. Furthermore, I’ve started looking forward to things once again — even Christmas!