TWAS the season to throw caution to the wind.
Overindulgence is not the true meaning of Christmas but somehow we get sucked into that festive state of mind.
It’s as if we switch off to common sense. Budgets, diets and a commitment to style and good taste are thrown out the window once the calendar pages flick over to December. Most of us are guilty of it without realising it and I’m not just talking about the people who wear foam reindeer antlers.
There are those that are the model of temperance. They plan their Christmas shopping early, only have a sliver of pudding and generally make the rest of us look bad.
But thankfully, they are few and far between.
The majority of us launch into a yuletide blur of overeating, overspending, oversinging and overdecorating.
No one knows when this mild form of festive madness begins but it’s somewhere between when supermarkets start playing Bing Crosby songs to the period when the first influx of cards shoot through the letterbox.
The shopping environment is the best way to witness this annual phenomena.
The first symptom is a stockpiling of goods in late November. Odd items start to encroach on the grocery list like bon bons, crackling and dry biscuit assortments.
But the pre-Christmas grocery experience is where the insanity sets in.
Civility in supermarkets is replaced by all-out war once December 24 rolls around. It suddenly dawns on all and sundry that most shops will be shut on Christmas Day, which means every comestible needs to be snapped up as if the nuclear winter is upon us. While television cameras love to capture the Boxing Day action outside Bourke Street, the strange sight of the Christmas Eve pile-up at the local Woolworths is enough to elicit a bemused smile.
Meanwhile, other shopping environments are just as scary.
Poor parents with young children are forced to traverse through toy shops, attempting to buy something that doesn’t include batteries (and if it does, buy the right type of batteries). Then there are the PA systems pumping out Christmas carols, infused with the customary “doof doof” in clothing outlets.
In the department stores, matronly women start to get a vicious look in their eyes. Handbag clutched in readiness in one hand and shopping list in the other, they navigate their way between golf socks and cane-basket hampers, keen to snap up a ginger marmalade bargain. Some may hold a well-thumbed edition of The Australian Womens Weekly just in case they spot similar craft materials to those listed on page 117. They spring like wild-eyed hyenas at the last checked shirt on special, a once-in-12-month chance to spruce up their husband’s wardrobe. Eventually satisfied with the spoils of their festive hunt, the matron disappears, only to be replaced by a more desperate creature — the unorganised bloke.
They scurry around the main street, realising the impending doom of December 25 is fast approaching. Those with trolleys zoom through the aisles with the manoeuvrability of Allan Moffat, keen to finish the job as soon as possible.
All manner of plastic rubbish is hurled into the cart in the hope that the recipients will at least be partially satisfied. The relief of the unorganised bloke is palpable when he reaches the counter — I should know I’m one of them. Thankfully, some genius invented gift vouchers, which take all the thought out of gift buying. Aah, relief!
Finally, Christmas lunch rolls around and you can finally put your feet up. Unless you’re the one doing the cooking.
Food in the average Australian household is usually a sumptuous affair but there are a few oddities that we can only get away with for that one day out of 365.
Brandy butter is the prime offender — who thought that you could blend salt, fat and sugar into such a heady mixture.
And what other time of year can you enjoy the delights of setting food on fire? Lighting up the Christmas pudding is pretty much the only time of year when culinary pyromania is justified.
After all the food is eaten, the wrapping paper strewn around and the television left on for the news and Queen’s Christmas message, you know that you can rest easy. The madness is all over for another year. I suppose that’s why they call it the silly season.
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