Christmas can’t come soon enough, by Jaleh

‘From Brockwell to Berkeley’ is an ongoing series of snapshots from life on opposite sides of the Atlantic. It’s written by two close friends: Hannah (who moved from London to California in August 2020 to study overseas) and Jaleh (who remains in London).

Sitting here in reindeer socks at the end of November, I’m early in clinging to the Christmas spirit. I’ve been furtively listening to festive songs for two weeks now, and a few days ago we made a tinsel dash to Homebase.

For the past couple of years our seasonal decor has been tending towards the tasteful — refined if rustic, colourful but coordinated. But this year we’re going big and brash. The more tasteless and tackier, the better. Mum talks about a ‘Dog and Truck’ Christmas, referring to a pub in the East End whose landlady used to blanket the place in decorations. Come December, I plan on making our house a standalone light-up attraction. You’ll need sunglasses to go in the kitchen. Epileptics will be warned at the door.

I thought I was the only one, but turns out everyone’s at it — buying their trees weeks in advance and blasting Mariah Carey nine days earlier than normal. Those nine days say a lot. Those nine days are months in lockdown, no Halloween, and Brexit round the corner. Christmas is the antidote to doom and gloom — even if it isn’t, we want to believe that it is. No wonder we need more of it, and sooner.

The past weeks have brought promising news of vaccines, which is good and hopeful but still feels distant. And it’s made everyone speak in platitudes — you’d think the whole country was stuck in an underpass traffic jam, the number of times ‘light at the end of the tunnel’ has been bandied around. But in many ways it’s the perfect image; right now, at the far edge of lockdown 2.0, it’s very much blinkers-on, buckle-down. And the light at the end of the tunnel looks a lot like a twinkly trail of Christmas LEDs.

The acceleration of advent isn’t just psychological — dwindling temperatures also put it into fast-forward. During early mornings in the park, there’s that slightly ghostly feeling I always associate with on-screen adaptations of Bronte novels: clouds of breath in the air, grass crunchy from cold, people floating in the mist like half-finished sketches (all torso, no legs). It’s passed the threshold of proper cold now — scientifically, probably below ten degrees; subjectively, the point when scarves are non-negotiable and jewellery feels frosty against your skin.

The Bronte vibes are bolstered by the experience of romance in lockdown, which (if you don’t live with your other half, and if you’re playing by the rules) effectively means a Victorian-style courtship: mountains of layers, barely any physical contact, and meeting to go for chilly, unchaperoned walks. After four weeks, I can see why this has more appeal as a cinematic attraction than it does as an actual lifestyle.

Christmas is always the warmest season at the coldest time of year, but this time it’ll be in more ways than one; on the day itself we’ll probably have the heating on full blast, with the windows open for ventilation. Part of the early Christmas rush comes from seeking comfort through ritual, which experts say ‘alleviates anxiety’ and ‘increases social connection’. Apart from the vaccines, I can’t think of two things we need more this year — put in layman’s terms, it’s less stress, more love. Bring on the bloody mince pies.

Read the rest of the posts in ‘From Brockwell to Berkeley’ .

Originally published at http://jalehbrazell.wordpress.com on November 28, 2020.