16 hours Ago By Helen O’Rahilly
I had the usual Irish Christmases as a Dublin kid and teenager: Mam having her one and only glass of bright yellow Bols Advocaat; the playboy, bachelor neighbour who became flaithiúlach with cash after a feed of pints and who handed out crisp £5 notes to the local kids on the way back from the Autobahn pub on Glasnevin Avenue; the packed raucous morning Mass on the big day with restive kids desperate to get back home to try out the Scalextric or their “Growing Hair” Barbies. The day went as it always did: up early, ripping off the Moore Street wrapping paper to discover Action Man sets, an Abba album, a game of Buckaroo. The festive table was always piled with all the food you’d expect and some you didn’t: the exquisite tiny plump Superquinn chipolatas, the home-made nutty, fruity stuffing even a spoonful of cranberry sauce out of a jar.
Very exotic. Dad, a pharmacist, exhausted by the festive sales of Charlie perfumes, Blue Stratos aftershaves and Yardley’s Lily of the Valley bath cubes, would lie on the couch, “full as a tick” as he said as he patted his belly, and would harrumph gently as Shiela, the Mam’s cousin, over from London, would suggest something other than watching The Two Ronnies on the telly. It was the nearest we got to a “domestic” on that festive day.
And always the 5pm plaintive call “Any chance of a turkey sandwich?” just as the women were finishing the Sisyphean task of washing and drying the Christmas dishes. The hisses and mild profanities in the kitchen were kept to low decibels. Older and having moved away, I created the same Christmases for my family – 30 years of flitting back between Dublin and London, I always took charge of the big day as my parents grew old and I was one with the strength and the wherewithal to shop, cook and lay the table.
It was no burden: a thank you for all the years of being presented with the best of everything on that December day. Not all Christmases were with family: some were in New York, a Norfolk farmhouse, the brother’s Cambridge home, a country house in Offaly, a Connemara bolthole. All had their special charms.
But the “Family Christmas” at home predominated. If I didn’t fly back from London or the parents didn’t make the journey to me, the festive season was seen as a dud. I’d have to make up for a Christmas Day absence by spending New Year with the parents instead.
The Dad and Mam had to be seen, had to be part of this special season. I’m five years back with a house of my own in Dublin. The parents have died; the family home sold.
I’m not pleading the poor mouth: I was offered a place at his table by my only sibling in the UK, by pals in Ireland. But I chose, this year, to spend the big day on my own. Neither am I a Christmas Grinch: the tree is up and decorated; my mantelpiece has garlands from my garden.
The baubles and trinkets hail from 1970s Dublin and my 30 years in London. Each gewgaw means something special. I had my menu planned.
No huge turkey carcass or ham joint but my late Aunt Monica’s croquettes – a recipe from her 1970s Robert Carrier cookbook. Prepared on Christmas Eve, I relished tucking into them with a crisp salad and a dollop of iridescent piccalilli. I even sourced a little roundel of Perle Imperial caviar and spooned it onto warm blinis topped with crème fraîche for my morning snack; a glass of Billecart-Salmon Brut champagne washed down the little spongy, salty delights perfectly.
I could hear my Ma saying “Notions!”. So I raised a second glass to her. On Christmas Eve, I settled down to watch carols from King’s College, Cambridge, on the TV.
I had a stack of books to read, the presence of three demanding felines were keeping me on my toes, a real fire was warming me. I already had a December weekend in London with old pals, neighbours and colleagues: soaked up the Selfridges’ madness, delved into Daunt’s Books, took in a carol concert in St Marylebone Church and had a fine hot whiskey in my old haunt, The Auld Shillelagh in Stoke Newington. A little Christmas in my old home city.
I learned last week that I could be an apanthropist but I don’t fit its dual descriptions: disliking people and wanting to be alone. I like people: I can be social, chatty but I’d much rather be on my own, given the choice. Maybe it’s my age, maybe it’s the time of year, when every advert and jingle is shouting at us about the joy of impending family reunions, that my demi-apanthropy comes to the fore.
I no longer feel the need to be surrounded by people, to make small talk. To be relieved of the burdens of shopping, food preparation, cooking and cleaning up for the gang was a joy. I walked to see the diffident, majestic swans in the local park, dropped in to lovely neighbours for a swift drink but then hid myself away for the rest of the day: happy, content.
Not lonely but choosing to be alone. I salute those who are surrounded by family but a solo Christmas has been a long time coming and, yes, it was wonderful. I hope you’ve all had a very happy Christmas, no matter how you’ve chosen to spend it.
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