Christmas in Another Time

Christmas is the time of year, when those of us stimulated by memories of twinkling clarity in post WWII Christmas celebrations, can utter a little nostalgic sigh. I recall the times when Carol Singers with lanterns wended their way down our road, stopping outside each house in the hope of a mince pie as a trade-in for a dutiful jingle. How it gave me little bubbles of joy in my young mind, despite some resounding off-key tones in the Little Town of Bethlehem. It was a beacon of light in an otherwise dismal childhood. We underestimated then, how circumstances could radically transform our Yuletide joy, with one little virus.

I went recently to the local English Christmas Carol Service, and joined the throng of worshippers in the open air, in chilly 2 degrees, thanks to Swiss Covid restrictions. It all felt spookily biblical as we combatted the icy conditions, with some of the flock swathed in blankets against the elements. We listened to readings and sang the yuletide choruses, encased in surgical masks, managing at best to imitate a communal joyful noise. As local English teacher I was recruited to do a Nativity reading, while fighting off the icicles.

This event is something of an achievement in my little Swiss hometown, and all credit goes to the good folk who organised it. One makes benevolent allowances for the odd linguistic faux-pas, but their invitation to a cup of mulled wine afterwards challenged my powers of visualisation somewhat. Still, we were all very jovial with each other, behind our masks, trying to recognise faces, only seen once a year at best. I felt obliged to beat a hasty retreat before yet another worshipper enquired as to my personal vaccine status. No, I did not succumb to the jab, and am feeling patently healthy, despite the general scepticism among some, that we should spike ourselves as a social duty towards others: They mean by that, towards the spiked ones who are supposed to be immune to Covid anyway.

Those who have read my previous blog, referring to the Murky Turkey, will understand my aversion to the traditional British Christmas dinner. However, when I moved into Switzerland early on in my biography, it was with great relief that I learned that there was no specific traditional Christmas dinner, least of all, turkey. In the meantime, fifty years later, I am happy to report that not another morsel of turkey has ever passed my lips, during all my years in Switzerland. Why that particular bird is so celebrated remains a mystery to me.

So for Christmas this year, in order to celebrate rather more gleefully than our everyday repast, my son and I booked a table at a local restaurant, known to produce excellent steaks. It was obvious that we would have to dine outside on the terrace, as non-vaccinated subjects in Switzerland. It reminds me of restaurants with a note on the door and the picture of a dog, with the text: I must stay outside. We were assured though, that it would be a festive occasion with heating, an open fire and decorations and lots of merry munchers. Much exhilarated by this uplifting forecast, we anticipated a magical Christmas/winter setting in the midst of other jolly diners. There was no necessity to dress up in celebratory tackle; all we needed was a thick winter coat and warm boots.

What however transpired on Christmas evening, was a solitary table with no heating, or open fire and a bad-tempered waiter who complained that they had expected us earlier. After ten minutes, he finally mastered the heating knob, whose effects took an infinity to penetrate the cold air. In view of the climatic nip in the air, we opted to skip the cold starter and ordered a medium rare steak with chips. The steak arrived in a sizzling pan, but it was adversely overdone. We consoled ourselves with the theory that it may exude a little more warmth than medium rare version, and the pan remained hot for a while. Since the only desserts involved ice cream, we dispensed with that too, and before we could hardly swallow the last forkful, the bill abruptly appeared. Once paid together with a Yuletide tip, the waiter donned his thick jacket, locked the restaurant door and hoofed it off home, leaving us all alone with no inkling of Christmas cheer. Yes, Christmas for the unjabbed among us was a novel experience, not designed for the sentimental or soft-hearted and not an experience I choose to repeat.

That said, I spent a beautiful time with my lovely son and after two years of the government’s best efforts to strip us of our rights and constrain us into residential detention, we look forward to 2022, a cease-fire on the Covid front and the next undiluted Merry Christmas.

Photo: Pexels / Jill Wellington