Christmas... not

MY new neighbour was clearly shocked when I thrust my arm into the air and leapt up and down making loud whooping noises. This is what I normally do when Derby County score (please dear Lord, let them bag a goal soon).

What had he done? He had told me he hadn’t bought a single Christmas present, written a card, switched on a chaser light and definitely wouldn’t be filling his front garden with blow-up Santas. “I’m not big on Christmas,” he said in a laid-back drawl. “What do you need presents for anyway? Everybody’s got everything these days. “I suppose I’ll eventually buy a few vouchers for people so they can get what they want.

“When I was a boy I got a sweater knitted by my auntie and a second-hand bike if I was lucky.” “Oh, come on, you’re younger than me,” I snorted, “You’ll be telling me about apples and oranges next. And, by the way, does this all mean you won’t be dressing up your house like Blackpool illuminations?” He tossed his eyes heavenwards, shaking his head with a rueful grin on his face. My goal-style celebration followed his festive announcement.

I confess, my jubilant response stunned me as much as it stunned him. But I felt a giant rush of elation to know that someone was as disorganised and dismissive of the big festive hoo-ha as me. “I am so pleased to hear you say you’ve done practically nothing yet,” I told him gleefully. “I’ve not bought a card yet, let alone written one. And I hate the Christmas crush in town, wandering round aimlessly trying to buy stuff that people don’t need. “All the shops seem to have is mountains of pointless toiletry sets anyway. How many bottles of bubble bath does one person need in a lifetime? And they’ll all be half price on Christmas Eve.” Our nods of agreement were heart-warming. It’s so good when you meet a like-minded soul – especially when you’re surrounded by festive fashionistas. You know, the ones who’ve already wrapped up all their presents in sensational, colour co-ordinated gift-wrap with matching bows and twirly bits.

The smug ones. The ones who buy posh cards for the people they want to impress and go to Poundland for the rest. The ones who bought a black tree this year – or maybe the new upside down one – and smothered it in ridiculously expensive baubles. The ones who send out a round robin letter informing you of a multitude of family successes in 2007: “Justin got 15 Grade As in his GCSEs, Miranda is going to Oxford, we’ve just had a swimming pool built and I’ve taken up helicopter lessons for a bit of fun. Apart from that, 2007 has been pretty dull”.

The ones who use Christmas to show off a bit. Then there’s the festive “party season” to get to grips with. Having kids, my social life became extinct on March 14, 1996 to be exact. Yes, I get out once every couple of months. I’m not actually that bothered. What with work, chores, school homework, football training (not me, my lads) and following the Rams, my life is full to bursting.

For me, grabbing 10 minutes to read a magazine is quality time enough. Besides, life is so full on, anything else topples me into total chaos. I am now in total chaos. In the next week, I’ve got two works dos, two Christmas school concerts, one of which falls on a day I simply can’t make because of work commitments (mum guilt shocker) and two nosh-ups with pals. It’s all very nice but more nights out than I usually pack into an entire year. And there’s still the job, the housework, the homework and the football to cram in. Oh, and a few zillion cards and presents to sort out.

To ease the load my nine-year-old e-mailed me his Christmas list. It included a PS3, a laptop and a Wii. “Better go and find myself a millionaire,” I laughed. “You don’t have to get me everything mum,” he conceded. “Just the laptop would be all right.” No pressure there, then. But while older readers may now be groaning in unison over the nation’s spoilt brats of today, may I offer a little hope? In boy-world 2007, collecting football cards is currently de rigeur.

Not so different from days gone by, eh? These much-desired cards – great for swaps in the playground – cost 35p a pack. “If I can’t afford a laptop would a few Match Attack cards do?” I suggested to my son. “Yeees!” A Rams goal-style celebration followed. Don’t call me mean. I’ll throw in a second-hand bike too. And, if he’s lucky, his auntie might knit him a sweater. “I felt a giant rush of elation to know that someone was as disorganised and dismissive of the big festive hoo-ha as me.”