Ask people what Christmas smells like and most would say roast turkey, mulled wine and cinnamon. Fair enough! Those are all lovely, emotive scents that – sure! – conjure up Christmas. But for me there are far more effective pongs you could waft at me if you wanted to turn my nose on, seasonally. From as long ago as I can remember, Christmas morning has smelled of strong coffee and cheap black bin bags. Whenever I unroll a pack of black sacks, even now – and at any time of year – I’m instantly transported back to a time of cotton PJs and bare feet, 6am awakenings and memories of films on TV the night before. Christmas as a kid usually went something like this:
Before she had kids of her own, my sister (a little older than me) would often stay over, which usually meant – whether lack of space dictated or not – me, her and my younger brother all crammed ourselves into one 3/4 size bed after leaving a cookie and some milk on a saucer for Santa and a carrot for Rudolph. We’d retire early, but watch TV for ages. Watch “Wild Cats” (“Yeah, give her back her kids, you worm!”), “Toys” and “Santa Claus The Movie”. At around 11pm (maybe later) our parents would assume we’re asleep and their far-noisier-than-sensible task of transporting our Christmas gifts from the various hiding places to our designated “arm chair” in the living room would begin. We’d hear bangs and crashes, bickering, the rustle of paper and plastic, doors held open and let close. Then one of them, usually my mother, would poke her head around our door and we would all pretend to be sound asleep.
My Dad would wake us early and down we’d go. We would stand in awe taking in the sight of all we had to unwrap. My family has never been rich, but we’ve always had more for Christmas than anyone else I’ve ever known. Then, while my dad put the kettle on, we’d crack open the first few gifts. “Open those two at the same time, because they go together,” my mother would say as Stuart and I unwrapped Ren & Stimpy plush toys, “I had to fight the woman at the market for those because she didn’t know what they were and I did and they were the only two there, so I said to her, I said…” – my mother, I think, turned gladiatorial when Christmas shopping. Other gifts we opened we would have to swap with each other, my mother having put them in the wrong piles after wrapping.
By this point my Dad would have delivered two steaming mugs of coffee – one for him, one for my Mam – with a roll of black sacks under his arm “for the wrapping paper” (this was before recycling was a thing you could get arrested for not doing). Those two things, the smells of them, have stayed with me to this day. They always will. Christmas, as a kid, smelled of strong coffee and black bags. Later in the day my older brother would arrive from Cardiff or Bristol or wherever and we’d have dinner together, play with all our new stuff, then crash in front of the TV with whatever was on that year. We always had a great day despite the universally-traditional family arguments and inevitable missing batteries. Every year is memorable and treasured.
Of course, when I got older and moved out, I went through a stage where Christmas was a grown-up thing to be experienced as a grown-up! It was about not having to get up early (though I always did), having a beer for breakfast, and DOCTOR WHO’S CHRISTMAS SPECIAL! So, so grown-up. When I lived in Cardiff with a couple of housemates Jo would always go home to her family for Christmas. Richard and I would remain in the house and phone our families like real men(!) – no namby pamby visits for us, oh no! We’d drink and cook and laugh and watch telly and still do quite well, present-wise, despite me being in my early twenties and he in his mid-thirties. Then, drunk and full of burned turkey and undercooked veg, we’d watch Doctor Who and fall asleep on the sofa surrounded by cans, plates and remote control Daleks.
One year, when me and Rich were having another Men Behaving Badly Christmas in Cardiff, we got a phone call at around ten in the morning. “Hello? It’s Jim!” said a voice, Irish accent, against a background of Christmas songs. The only Irishman called Jim we knew ran our local pub. “…from the pub?” he said. Ah, right. “We were wondering, since you’re regulars, if you’d like to pop down this morning and share a drink with the other regulars? Free, of course!” We were coats-on and out in seconds. We knocked the locked pub door and it was opened by a man we knew by sight but had never spoken to. Like Ed and Shaun we’d often make up back-stories for our fellow regulars. This dude was an ex-hit man, in our heads. We went in and were greeted by at least twenty other vaguely familiar faces, all drinking gigantic Irish coffees. We were given a couple of our own (then more, then more, then more – all free, all STRONG in terms of alcohol and coffee) and we had a wonderful morning/afternoon getting to know the strangers we’d seen every night for the two years previously. Then we went home, burned dinner and fell asleep. We still don’t know how Jim found our phone number.
And now, with a wife and son, and a house of our own, Christmas is food and telly and games and family. Whatever we do, we love. Wherever we do it, we do it together. We’re never completely ready for the day, and we don’t care. Aimee usually cooks dinner and it’s always wonderful. Keir will play with his toys. I’ll read one of the many new books I’ve got, about whichever obsession I’ve had this year. We’ll visit Keir’s grandparents, take our dog for a cold walk. Then, always, cheese and ham and wine. We always have enough leftovers from Christmas dinner to feed us for a week. When we’re full, or when Aimee and Keir have fallen asleep, I’ll take one of my new books for a long hot bath, and think about how lucky I am. Christmas “smells” of everyone I love these days. Of a million happy memories. And of what I’ve got. Which is a lot.
Ho, ho, ho!
(Originally written in 2014, now updated)
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