It was mid-October when I checked my work inbox. Not for the first time, naturally, in my placement at The Glossy. But rather than the average spam that awaited me from an unwelcome PR agent, I had received a message from my boss, subject line: Christmas meeting this Wednesday.
The world of media is a strange one. For many, the holiday season has not yet begun, but my office fell victim to Christmas-themed packages back in September. But like the PRs who could not comprehend an English Glossy way out in Madrid, acknowledging the Christmas spirit is amongst us seems somewhat disjointed- in the sense of both the wrong country and the wrong timing.
For me, one thing that epitomises the Andersson household is Christmas. As my English and Swedish heritage collide, we begin opening our gifts on Christmas Eve, get giddy with Glogg and party with Pepparkakors. Everyone becomes appallingly sentimental and I lose the urge to throw our TV remote at my father’s head when he selects A Wonderful Life for our Christmas movie year after year. My Uncle Danny eats candles and plays spoons on Boxing Day, whilst my Grandma still believes it’s acceptable to have a feel of my boobs to see if I’ve “developed yet”. It’s bizarre, it’s just about tolerable, and I love every minute of it.
I had already decided by early November that I would fly home for the holiday, and would remain a Spanish scrooge until someone purchased me an advent calendar.
“Guys, please stop singing,” I hissed down the street to my friends, who decided that I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day was acceptable to be performed in the streets of Madrid. Having completed half of their Christmas stories, I dragged behind with a defunct email account, wondering why someone had attempted to send me a lingerie catalogue in regards to gifts for ten-year-old boys.
“They say it’s bad luck to sing Christmas songs before Christmas- but oh well- I’m just so excited!” said my friend.
“When exactly can we be excited about Christmas?” my other friend asked.
“When I have flown home, and someone greets me with an advent calendar,” I said, through gritted teeth.
“We’ll have a Christmas dinner and we’ll mess about with PR gifts and pretend someone bought them for us,” another person offered.
“I seem to be infuriated by the lack of light-switching on by Spanish E-listers and really tacky Christmas shops.” I added.
“I MISS HOME!” we all burst into chorus. I had burst the bubble for all of those with me, descending them into Christmas countdown madness, in real world terms.
I love Madrid. I love Spain. But I join my friends in longing for the unbelievably rubbish weather, the drunken parental behavior and the ironic treatment of a Christmas jumper. For me, it’s the only holiday I can really comprehend.