Rain, Mince Pies and a TV Overload: Christmas Traditions

While I politely stretch my legs as inspired by my semi-professional gymnastic-mad kittens (forget the old 'semi-feral' title; judging by Bart's loud purr as he pleasantly enjoys being stroked by my seemingly giant-sized hand, he couldn't be further from the original truth!) and await to go outside into the damp and grey clouded unknown, I'm preparing myself to get my foundation-caked complexion soaked more heavily than a grubby pair of cheap trainers and risk falling over in the mud which is messily adorning the front, horribly soggy lawn. Rain, without a doubt, has officially become one of my largest pet hates - of course, no reference to my two furry pets, both of whom have somehow learnt how to destruct their litter tray and recent edition of The Daily Mail before breakfast is served - and I've got no choice than to face the hard facts that it will probably remain a constant presence as Christmas comes and eventually goes.

Let's face it, at least one of us have endured a misery-inducing wet Christmas if the option of flying over to a sunnier Hawaii hotel or a fitness-revitalizing trip to a ski resort in Switzerland has been hastily slammed shut before our puppy-sad eyes: despite being incapable of remembering what I did in a clear state of mind several minutes ago, I can never fail to recall the countless memories of mud splattering my size seven star-patterned boots or miserable clouds resembling a similar shade to a typical grey tracksuit boring into my eyes, bleeding them dry of any wishes of spending a perfect White Christmas in the comfort of my own warm and cherished home. And what I find the most strangest above everything else is that I either don't remember or had an attention span of a memory-losing goldfish as a little girl, otherwise I wouldn't feel so adamant that all of my Christmases - and Easters, too - have been dedicated to a shower pouring heavily on our soaked-through garden and preventing my brother from kicking a ball as imposing as a pair of breast implants over the fence.

Alongside obvious recollections of devouring bowlfuls of much-appreciated brussel sprouts - am I the only person in the world who just adores the natural flavour of vitamin-rich brussel sprouts in their perfectly tasty form? - and awakening my groggily-spoken brother from a soothing slumber at six in the pitch-black morning to check his heavily loaded stocking, rainfall has simply become a tradition at Christmas, albeit I hasten to add that it is a highly unwanted one. Don't get me wrong, jetting halfway across the world to a warmer and more vibrant country (believe me, all signs of eye-popping colour is drained down the toilet more dramatically than my paling complexion if a storm happens to befall the grim-faced town) does not interest me in the slightest because Christmas strikes myself and many other people as an occasion to return to your roots and stay near to your beloved, but should my blossoming hatred for non-stop downpour and fierce gales more powerful than a chemical-addled nail varnish remover be ignored?

Amongst giving in to my brother's persistent pleading and sneaky stealing of my recently-baked batch of cinnamon-coated snickerdoodles (minus the calorific and energy-packed chocolate bars) and dealing with constant messages of rejection regarding work experience, I put up with a lot of various, crazy things which usually issue a threat of driving me round the bend. Yet being surrounded in an area soggier than a pastry bottom on The Great British Bake-Off all the time is hardly the pick-me-up which I'm looking for as I rip open my thickly-sellotaped presents (thanks Dad!) in a darkened living room on an eerily grey Christmas morning. But perhaps it's just me or my dampness-detesting hormones getting the better of my wiser senses, all of which takes place on a suddenly bright Sunday morning...

Apart from getting knee-deep in dampened fields of grass and running for my life as a pair of muddy football boots sends alarm bells ringing as they near my squeaky clean high heels, there are numerous other traditions at Christmas which hold a particular presence in our families, whether associated with our choices or as decided by the powers beyond our control: the TV guide. Yes, I may not dedicate half my time to lying on the sofa and being transported to a programme set on a planet similar to my own - there is a box piled high with clementines which needn't go to waste, you know - but a life-changing tragedy would have had to occur if the annual purchase of the festive television guide was unable to stir any hand-clapping excitement from my leopard mitten-clad paws.

Despite barely encountering any programmes which I would bother to record on the Sky+ box, I still enjoy reading the TV guide because it has claimed the high exclusive title of a treasure in the household - how else would my blockbuster-mad brother remain so organized as to which films he yearns to watch? And, like many people, Christmas results in a higher viewing of programmes than usual because a wider range of films, genres and popular programmes are aired when they may never receive any precious screen time throughout the year, which somewhat creates a pile-up of unwatched shows on the Sky+ planner and uses up increasingly valued space for other shows that other members of my family wish to record. Except for a festive one-off edition of a documentary following the often hormonal-fuelled lives of teenagers at a secondary school, I have so far recorded no other programmes which run the blood pressure-rising risk of draining the storage below a critical level - what sort of hard-hitting evidence could my sibling conjure against me if I only take a tiny amount of space from the drama-cluttered planner?

And finally, one more Christmas tradition which is always welcome in our spice-adoring home is the one and only mince pies, all of which must be homemade with the most elite jar of nose-clearing mincemeat (you'll see what I mean if you stick your nose inside it). For some reason, I don't quite know the origins of mince pies except for the well-known fact that Christmas simply wouldn't be the same without a hint of golden pastry standing out in an airtight container and the mouth-watering spices and dried fruit packing an immense load of flavour within a single bite.

This year, the traditionally pastry-covered mince pie was given a remarkable makeover when my mum adapted a recipe featured in a festive-themed leaflet which used a frangipane topping (one which contained a powerful combination of ground almonds and strong almond essence, instantly reminding me of the distinctive scent of marzipan) and decorated with flaked almonds, whilst still remaining true to the original pastry bottom and mincemeat filling. The result was even more delicious than the traditional recipe and went down as a massive hit among my family; as soon as the first spice-coated currant hit the tip of my tongue, my instincts knew that Christmas had finally arrived in my home.

Of course, anything else could provoke such powerful feelings of festive fever for yourself by decorating a tree, using your best pen whilst writing cards to family and friends or attending a party - all of it counts. Sure, a few drops of rain may not be a tradition which automatically plasters on a Hollywood-perfect smile on my lips, nor does an overload of television programmes reduce the sickening ache in my stomach after a heavy Christmas meal, but all of it holds a place within the festivities, right? As I like to believe, traditions either already exist or you create your own - just make the best of them!