The Pleasure of Looking Forward to Christmas

There isn't a date when I ceremonially announce that the Christmas season has begun.

We'll usually have had our summer holiday around early September. When we come home, I start making the house feel like autumn.

Then October arrives and Halloween gets its turn.

And somewhere amongst all of that, Christmas starts appearing at the edges.

A particularly good Advent calendar. The first beautiful Christmas things appearing in shops. A present for Bas that I suddenly know is exactly right. A Christmas-market plan.

One little thing.

And I think: Oh. It's coming.

That's the beginning.

Anticipating Christmas and decorating for Christmas are not the same thing.

I love autumn too much to erase it the moment a shop starts selling baubles. Halloween gets its moment. Amberfell gets its moment.

And then, when Halloween comes down, Christmas gradually begins taking its place indoors.

One season doesn't have to be pushed out early for you to start looking forward to the next one.

I often start buying presents for Bas in September.

Partly because Christmas can become expensive and I'd rather spread that spending across several months.

But the nicer explanation is that I love it.

Looking forward to giving someone something is part of the gift.

There is always a point when Christmas starts appearing in shops and somebody says: "Already?"

I also secretly love those first sightings.

The first ornaments. The first ridiculous food. The first beauty Advent calendars. The first Christmas candles.

It isn't Christmas yet.

That's why it's nice.

Anticipation needs a little distance.

I buy an Advent calendar every year.

Opening it is lovely. Choosing it is almost as good.

The whole mechanism of an Advent calendar is anticipation made physical.

One door today. Another tomorrow. Not everything at once.

We love Christmas markets.

If we're going away to one, I don't only enjoy the days we're actually there. I enjoy choosing where we're going. Finding the hotel. Thinking about the city. Knowing there's a December trip sitting in the diary.

A plan can give you pleasure long before you actually do it.

Plan fewer things. Enjoy them for longer.

I could watch Home Alone in June. Nobody would arrest me. There are no Christmas police.

But I don't particularly want to.

Part of the pleasure is that certain things come back.

Sometimes waiting is what gives a tradition its power.

If you put everything up, watch every film, play every playlist, eat every seasonal food and visit three Christmas markets before November has properly started, there is a reasonable chance December will feel like the encore.

I like a slow reveal.

The goal isn't to start Christmas earlier. It's to start enjoying the anticipation earlier.

After Halloween, Christmas can begin appearing.

A little light. Something on a shelf. One area. Eventually the main tree.

And that tree is the moment when it properly hits me.

Christmas. There you are.

Decorating slowly lets you experience the arrival rather than only the result.

The main tree deserves its own day.

Music on. Boxes open. Ornaments everywhere.

Bas assembles the tree and I take over the decorating.

Then all those ridiculous, sentimental little objects start coming back: Prince, coffee, crisps, travel ornaments, things we've collected together.

Things that would make absolutely no sense on anybody else's tree.

That is precisely why I love them.

Not everything needs to happen in the run-up.

Christmas Eve is one of the parts I most want to protect.

Picky bits. Presents. Coffee. A familiar film. Home.

Anticipation works because something is still waiting for you.

Leave something unopened. Unwatched. Uneaten.

Not because you're rationing joy.

Because you're giving future-you some.

At some point, visible excitement becomes something adults are expected to moderate.

No.

You are allowed to look forward to things. You are allowed to get excited because you've found a ridiculous ornament. You are allowed to buy the Christmas pyjamas. You are allowed to have opinions about Advent calendars.

Being grown-up doesn't require becoming unimpressed.

Most Decembers are not films.

There is work. Laundry. Emails. Groceries. Appointments. You will probably still have to empty the dishwasher.

That's why small things matter.

Perhaps that's what makes anticipation so useful: it gives ordinary days a little horizon.

You don't need to finish all your work before you're allowed to enjoy it.

You don't need the house completely clean first. You don't need to have bought every present. You don't need to be perfectly organised.

Christmas can start arriving while your laundry basket remains offensively full.

It usually does.