What takes a young, not unpleasant ginger girl (well, woman) to spend the Christmas Eve in an airport, alone?
And, why on earth should she stay home alone on the Christmas day, when she could choose among a dozen relatives, parents included, ready to welcome her with love?
The question becomes much more interesting if we think that the above mentioned person could have spent the Christmas Eve and Day very well fed by a plethora of aunts and old friends.
This could have happened in a sunny island (Malta) and, being in a place where she generally goes on holiday, she could have had a justification more not to work.
The first reason I could think about, to give an answer to this crucial question is, this girl is a terrible one. She’s a Scroogish spoiled and raged woman, disappointed by life, that just wants to stay alone.
Or, she could have had a very very sad family past, so that the terrible rituality of Christmas time always reminds her how unhappy she was, feeling sad when everybody tries to tell you that, if you are unhappy at Christmas time, something is wrong with you.
All plausible options… but for the fact that the above mentioned woman… is me.
And all I know about me is that I’ve been (un)lucky enough to have a big and lovely family, I’ve been disappointed by life not more or less than all my same-aged friends, and I’m senseless enough not to be eager to stay alone that much in my common days.
But, in the name of God, I can swear that sometimes even a ‘normal’ person doesn’t have a good relationship with Christmas. For a reason that is all but weird.
Shortly, I was in Malta with my thousand people family.
A quite warm December, they hadn’t seen me for a while, lots of questions, they seemed to be very and truly interested in me.
Good smell of brandy&chocolate of the Christmas Logs, popping fire.
But yesterday I politely told them all, that an important work matter was claiming me back, and unpolitely booked a flight back to London. And left.
I packed quickly all my winter stuffs, and left. Without even thinking why was I so uncomfortable, I left.
In the end everything was like all the other years. Dinner at the same aunt’s place, same loving people all around me, same sunny place where to live my seaside Christmas. Everything was the same.
And, in a silent and posticipated analysis of my unbearable states of mind, I could even guess that this was the true problem.
That pretention of stability we like to feel at Christmas, in a world and in a life that is not programmed to be stable. The theatrical setting of a still and comfortable loving world. Maybe this is not a good period for me to pretend… maybe the idea that there are thing that doesn’t change cannot be stood by my body after a year in which everything has changed every day and is constantly changing still.
That’s it. I like this explication to the fact that is Christmas afternoon and I’m in London, home alone, with a cup of tea and cinnamon and a laptop that is actually waiting for me to write a novel. And I know that I won’t to it.