Mission Creep

Oh, please, not yet. It’s November, for goodness sake. I've got dahlias in flower, the squirrels are burying conkers on my lawn, and the thin duvet’s still on. You can’t possibly be putting that up now. What the hell's going on?

It’s a five-foot artificial tree in their bay window, from Home Bargains. I saw the box propped against their bin, boasting twenty percent off. And then, this afternoon, Gordon emerged with his ladders and spent an hour dangling frilly LEDs from his guttering and fixing a plastic Santa to the chimney. The silly old sod is seventy-three. He’ll kill himself one day. I can see the headlines now: "Gordon's Premature Evacuation."

Surely there’s someone I can complain to about this disturbing Yuletide overhastiness? The Council’s Premature Planning Permission department? Or perhaps a Festive Timing Enforcement Bureau? Or should I stand outside Dorothy Perkins in the precinct and scream, "It’s still November for God’s sake! Tell Noddy Holder and Bing Crosby to come back in three weeks!"

Last week, there were twelve of us in the queue at the bus station. We were early—I counted. Force of habit, I suppose. Gwen from next-but-one nodded at me as she slumped into a seat and dropped her bag onto the floor. Bursting it was, with rolls of festive wrapping paper sticking out like defiant fingers. Up yours, they said. We don’t care if it is November. She saw me looking, raised her eyebrows as if to say, I know, it is, isn’t it? Poor Gwen. I knew her when she could cycle to Hawes and back in a day.

And then, before you know it, as Mo Mowlam would say, it’s dicks on the table time. My glow is brighter than your glow. My meter spins faster than yours. Neighbour after neighbour trying to outshine each other, literally. Looks like Las Vegas on steroids. Every windmill off Spurn Point overheating, trying to keep up. Only three of us in the entire street have enough sense to keep out of it. We stare out at this orgy every night and wonder how the Nativity ever came to this.

I was in the queue at the Post Office the other day, and Gordon happened to be in front of me. I asked him if he rang the National Grid before switching on every night, just so they knew why all their dials had gone haywire. He wasn’t very amused. Told me we all needed cheering up now the dark nights were here. I asked him how his festive inferno scorching my front door every night was doing that, especially as his curtains were closed and he couldn’t see anyway. He mumbled something as he turned away. “Miserable sod,” was the bit I heard.

So here we are now, second day into the New Year, and he’s at it again. Too early this time. Scary Santa, flashing walking sticks, luminous reindeer, interstellar laser probes. All packed up and gone. I nipped across for a quick word while he was trying to untangle his flashing gutter fringe. Told him he’d got it wrong, yet again. He looked at me blankly, so I put him straight. Gave him the full monty: how we were celebrating the Nativity, not Flash Gordon's resurrection or the invention of electricity. That traditionally, we should observe a twelve-day period from Christmas Eve, and that being seen from space for six weeks before the event was straying somewhat from Christian tradition.
“What the hell’s it got to do with Christian tradition?” he said, as his annoyance with his frilly tangle visibly increased. “It’s not tradition that pays my electricity bill.”

I retreated to safety for a little quiet contemplation. Gordon is well known for his single-mindedness; his mother was a Primitive Methodist, and we’ve known each other for years. As I packed away my own fairy lights, I couldn’t get Gordon's words out of my head, and I eventually came to the conclusion that he’s either enjoying a one-man partial Belle Epoque, or guilty of serious mission creep. Either way, I don't really suppose it matters any more: Does it?