I love Christmas. Not in a “midnight Mass, stained glass and soaring carols echoing through the rafters” kind of way. No, I love the other Christmas. The kitsch Christmas. The Christmas of fairy lights, bonbons, Elf on the Shelf, Woolworths pavlovas. The Christmas of utterly arbitrary, yet fiercely defended, traditions.
On the day itself, you must have a Christmas Day outfit, preferably in a shade of red or green.Credit: iStock
If your family is anything like mine, the festive season is dictated by a set of unwritten, unbreakable domestic edicts. These are The Rules. The Christmas Rules. They are passed on through knowing glances, offhand comments (“you can’t put the tree up before December 1st”) and the shared panic of a new person discreetly tucking their paper crown under a napkin, instead of perching it jauntily atop their head where it belongs.
The rules, are the rules, are the rules.
For instance: Board games on Christmas Eve are compulsory. They must begin in good cheer and end in chaos. Someone must accuse someone else of cheating. Monopoly is banned in our household for reasons we all understand. A dark-horse cousin will emerge as a terrifyingly ruthless Scrabble player. A grandparent will fall asleep mid-game and one of the kids will burst into floods of tears when told they’re too young to play 500 and sent to bed (this is when the Ferrero Rochers appear).
On the day itself, you must have a Christmas Day outfit, preferably in a shade of red or green. Around 10am someone will say, “Right, I’m going to get changed.” And that’s it, the morning spell is broken. We’re officially transitioning from Santa presents to the family exchange portion of the day. The outfit is not as much about formality as it is about intent. The Christmas Day outfit says: “I am ready. I am entering the festive zone.”
A walk must be proposed. No one wants the walk. No one enjoys the walk. But the walk, or swim, must be proposed. Ideally, right after lunch, when everyone is too full to move and halfway through a port-induced nap. The proposer will say something about “stretching out the old bones” even though nobody knows what this means. Ultimately, the walk may or may not happen, but the proposal itself is vital. It is like the lighting of the Olympic flame.
This is as it should be.
Everyone tears in at the same time, like Boxing Day at Westfield in the ’90s. Wrapping paper flying, ribbons trampled underfoot, kids calling out “Thanks Granny!”
JAMILA RIZVI
Before I was married, I never thought of our traditions as particularly unusual. Not until I found myself explaining to my new husband that, no, you cannot open a present at the same time as someone else, like some kind of festive free-for-all, did I learn that not everyone does Christmas like we do.
