In Praise of Pooter and a Victorian Christmas

Update – December 5th 2012

Last night I took the old address book down in readiness for the annual Grogan Christmas Card Writing Ritual. For my poor husband it is something of a chore and probably the one time in the year when he picks a pen up and writes for more than ten seconds. Some of his old college friends, now in their late forties, get cards more suitable to a four year old, although he spends a little time on those few who actually still associate the Holy family with this time of year. I like to spend a little more time over it, choosing cards for individuals, but even I have to admit there are a number of people who are perhaps used to getting something from the end of the box from us. 

Anyway, as I sat to write a blog post this morning on the very topic of Christmas cards, I remembered this one from last year. I hardly promoted it at the time but had some lovely tweets and comments from those who also enjoy Diary of a Nobody and appreciate the difficulties poor Charles Pooter faces at the festive season. I plead for forgiveness therefore as I re-post this, hoping that it can still brings a little festive cheer.

Christmas makes me come over all Victorian. Not for me the silver tree with black baubles or  – horrors – the ‘tree in a bag’ from B&Q. No; short of lighting little candles on the tree and causing the first ‘Great Fire of Wellington’ I want a real fir tree covered with red and gold baubles, and decorations brought out year after year to please the kids. I want traditional crackers, all the sweets, nuts, mince pies, puddings, cakes and bearded (non Coca Cola) Santas; Christmas stockings, silly games, mulled wine and a festive feast.

Don’t get me wrong. I loathe the crowds grabbing at everything on the shelves to get the Christmas gift buying over as quickly as possible. I hate rows upon rows of cheap plastic toys and the Argos catalogue makes me come over all queasy. Shop staff are stressed and less inclined to spend time helping at this time of year and the new idea of asking at the till if I would like to add a pound to my bill ‘to help sick children’ is simply extortion by guilt in my view. However, with the room lights dimmed and the lights on the tree sparkling it is lovely to sit with a packet of peanuts and a glass of Bailey’s (OK, not very Victorian) and let the commercialisation of the season pass me by for a moment.

The BBC has a wonderful website to tie in with The Victorian Farm at Christmas. There are loads of hints and tips for a traditional festive season, none of which cost the earth. I will direct my friend Jo of SlummySingleMummy fame to the recipe for Wassail Punch (complete with ‘how to’ video), having experienced her attempts to concoct something similar at her Christmas party on Saturday. I am sure this brew will not end up tasting, as hers did, rather more washing up than wassail. I don’t know whether we will try any of the parlour games – getting my mother into ‘strange poses’ is likely to end up with a trip to A&E. However, the site is a mine of information on the history of Christmas and although it is quite clear that the seeds of the commercialisation we so hate in the 21st century were sown in the 19th, we could have stopped feeding them.