Part 1 - Ghost of Christmas Past.

As the title below reminds me - 24 December 2018: The Night Before Christmas - this piece first appeared 7 years ago on my old “Just Stuff” blog. My marriage had ended the year before, and I was still quietly rebuilding my life, learning how to live alone and also how to make something new out of what remained. Life has taken several surprising turns since then, and with Christmas approaching once again, it feels like a good moment to revisit old words and let them meet the life I have today.

In the spirit of A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens and with a nod to the ghosts who wander through the pages of this great story, here is my own little Ghost of Christmas Past.

24 DECEMBER 2018 - IT IS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS. 

It is the night before Christmas and all through the flat not a creature is stirring - well, apart from a middle-aged woman who would be stark naked were it not for the fluffy pink socks on her feet, as she frantically rummages through a pile of ironing in search of her pyjamas. Not for the first time since moving into her ground-floor flat did she curse herself for forgetting to close the curtains in the living room before heading off into the bathroom for a hot bubble bath.

Having been spotted by passers-by while bending over the sofa, rummaging through clean laundry, she quickly hid behind the Christmas tree in the desperate hope that its white branches and tiny red berry bulbs might preserve what remained of her dignity. Relief washed through her as they walked on, shaking their heads - no doubt confused and faintly traumatised by the sight of a rather ample rear end smiling at them through the French windows.

She surveyed the living room, now strewn with what had once been a neatly folded pile of washing but was currently a soft avalanche draped over the brightly coloured gifts she’d spent an hour wrapping. The red rug lay on the floor at a jaunty angle, and the closing credits of Kelly’s Heroes were rolling on the television as she reached over to switch it off.

Now dressed in her favourite pyjamas, she skidded across the laminate floor towards the kitchen and took in a second scene of chaos. She closed her eyes against the sight: a discarded garlic bulb, a small puddle of spilt milk, and a modest pile of dirty dishes still sulking in the cold grey water in the sink. She headed for the kettle to make her final coffee of the evening.

“Mince pie,” she thought. “Why not? It’s Christmas - and I’ve bought Gaviscon.”

For a moment she considered leaving out a mince pie, a carrot, and a glass of milk on the fireplace, but then remembered she had used the last of the carrots in the winter vegetable soup she’d made earlier in anticipation of the inevitable bout of healthy eating that would surely follow the festive overindulgence. Rudolph - God bless his shiny nose - was out of luck this year. Besides, there was no chance of the big man in the red suit getting into her flat. It was locked, bolted, and booby-trapped thanks to a recent binge-watching session of Luther on iPlayer.

She wandered into the bedroom and, as she placed her coffee on the bedside table, her eyes fell on a pile of unposted Christmas cards. Her heart sank. Guess whose name was going to be mud with the relatives again this year. She opened her top drawer, dropped the cards in, and climbed into bed.

It was now close to 10pm. Sitting up in bed, she opened her laptop and, with a few clicks, soft music reverberated through the speakers, no voice just the mellow sound of a saxophone accompanied by brushes whispering across a cymbal and the gentle plucking of a guitar. 

She flexed her fingers and began to type:

It is the night before Christmas…