On my way down to the river, winter sun on my face, I eat a cream doughnut and a grainy black coffee from the Georgian bakery on Talbot Street. Past the big Lidl, a homeless man stops me. It’s impossible to tell if he’s young or old; he’s not looking well.
He takes out some steaks from a tattered plastic bag. “Choice cuts. Two for a fiver,” he says. “Fresh from the fridge. Still cold. Here, feel.” I tell him thanks, but I’ve just had a cream doughnut, so I’m not that hungry.
“Two for a fiver,” he repeats. I can’t really argue with that. I dig around for some change to give him. He smiles, and I realise he’s actually quite young.
“God bless you,” he says. “Merry Christmas.”
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It’s that time of year again. Everything feels slightly manic. You can sense the ambient sadness in spite of the aggressive cheer – maybe because of it. Twinkly lights and childlike wonder for some, while others slip into seasonal affective disorders and alcoholic self-pity. Family is a mixed bag. Suicidal ideation is on the rise, and the helplines are inundated with calls. For most, Christmas is an ambivalent period: old grievances resurface, yet you count your blessings and know you’re fortunate for the life you have.
I’m feeling festive, more or less. I walk around town, peering into shop windows at the beautiful objects covered in artificial snow. I have a few good gifts sorted. I even bought a real tree with my housemate, which we dragged awkwardly down the road. At home, we cut it free from its plastic fishnet and found it was crooked. We’ve angled it artfully at the wall so nobody will know. It looks quite cheerful, like a tipsy old man leaning against the bar.
Last night I had dinner at a friend’s house. She has two young children, and as we were putting them to bed so we could sneak downstairs for a glass of wine, her eldest – just turned seven – asked, “Does the elf really walk around at night?”
We were surprised, and began to explain that a peculiar phenomenon occurs at this time of year – one scientists are still struggling to categorise. The leading theory suggests a temporary thinning of the atmospheric barrier that normally keeps everyday objects inert. There is also a quantum theory, far too complex for us to understand, let alone explain in simple language to a seven-year-old.
What is known, or at least strongly suggested by reports from households across Ireland and beyond, is that during this brief window something like a low-grade magical conductivity enters the domestic environment. Under these conditions, toy elves appear to undergo a nocturnal animation.
When unobserved, they run around the house, hopping around from shelf to shelf. At the first hint of dawn, or indeed the first footstep on the landing, they revert instantly to their motionless toy form.
It’s all very mysterious. Science will catch up eventually.
Downstairs, trying to help the elf’s long, dangly legs into his tiny, snowflake-printed pyjama bottoms, my friend seems crestfallen. The children’s questions lately have been full of doubt. Where has it come from? Some innocence has been shattered again in her, because you only truly experience Christmas as magical once, in childhood, and then again through your own children, if you have them.
It reminded me of my own childhood, when my mother held fast to the baffling belief that Santa was merely “a nice idea”. This was always strange to me, even then. Everyone else accepted the basic facts of the season without fuss – Santa’s annual itinerary, the logistical brilliance required, the well-documented generosity – but my mother insisted on treating the whole operation as if it were optional.
For years she maintained this stance with a kind of admirable, if perplexing, resolve. Looking back, I’m still not sure what she thought happened on Christmas Eve in the rest of the world – a mass hallucination? A co-ordinated prank? The evidence was abundant, yet she held her position.
And then, one year, she quietly abandoned her campaign. Gifts began appearing beneath the tree, signed, “From Father Xmas” and, “From Mother Xmas”. She could no longer deny the evidence.
I wasn’t about to jeopardise my sudden windfall, or her newfound faith, by asking questions. I behaved as though I had never noticed her earlier contrarian streak at all. I simply welcomed her, with great maturity and grace, into the shared reality the rest of us had occupied all along.
[ Fifth Avenue to Grafton Street: The magic of Christmas windowsOpens in new window ]
Which brings me to my point: Christmas is a system of intersecting pretences. This is no bad thing. Pretending is just another word for make-believe, or for making an effort. We pretend we are so wealthy that everything comes with satin ribbons. We pretend our families are more functional than they are. In fact, all the good things about Christmas – being idle, feasting on rich food, drinking sweet wines, turning the ugly electric lights off and lighting candles, trading lavish gifts – all of these things simulate being rich in another era. It’s whimsical. We pretend for the sake of those we love. And if we all do it together, we can forge a new reality. It’s magic.
