Most families have their own unique festive rituals, and my husband and I have spent this December in the manner traditional to us: squabbling. He is fully invested in every possible aspect of the season of goodwill. On the big day itself, he wears his cracker crown until it breaks, like a metaphor; I usually don’t bother unfolding mine, let alone putting it on. We’ve been married for 15 years, and weathered many storms together, but at the moment our relationship is particularly challenging. How do you cope when you’re Christmas incompatible?
In my defence, I’m not bah-humbugging at merely a rational amount of yuletide spirit. My husband is perpetually jolly as standard – it’s always the first word anybody I introduce him to uses to describe him afterwards. He’s relentlessly cheerful, endlessly enthusiastic and can be relied upon to put a positive spin on any situation. If we were trapped in a burning building, the last words I’d hear would be, “At least we’re not cold!”
This is his ordinary, his base level, and then, as November draws to a close, he turns it up to 11. He makes Buddy the Elf look like Debbie Downer.
He loves everything about Christmas. Fittingly, his name is Nick, and although some might argue that he’s a saint, I will only sign off on long-suffering. He actively enjoys the music. Even the second merriest person in the world allows themselves a brief sigh mid-December when All I Want for Christmas Is You starts to play again. Not my husband. He’s a cross between a goldfish and a labrador – each time he hears Fairytale of New York is like the first time, and he couldn’t be more delighted, or sing along with any more gusto. I wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out that Wizzard had passed him bouncing down the street and been inspired to write their hit song – this man genuinely does wish it could be Christmas every day.
By comparison, I’m the Grinch, but come on, so are the majority of us, surely? I am normal about Christmas. It’s fine. Exciting for our son, and that’s lovely, I quite like the twinkly fairy lights that pop up all over the place, but other than that, it’s a great deal of work, stress and panic. Forced fun, obligation to feel a certain way, a lot of pressure on one day. Ho ho ho, etc.
Last week my husband was accidentally within earshot when I mooted to a friend that 25 December should be like 29 February, Leap Day, and happen only every four years so we have a chance to miss it and then appreciate it more. It’s fair to say this did not go down well (with him at least; my friend agreed, which is why she’s my friend.) I honestly believe he would have minded less if he’d overheard me confessing to an affair.
In 2026 I might make him an Advent calendar, but instead of chocolate, behind each door is a little picture of the festive facet we will be bickering about that day. This month our arguments have run an exhausting, exhaustive gamut, including which day the tree goes up, cheese, flashing lights: tacky or joyful?, whether it’s acceptable to replace famously unpopular turkey with something that fits in the oven, where to hang stockings, tinsel: tacky or joyful?, when to vacuum, the king’s speech, whether Aled Jones sang the theme song to The Snowman or not (not!), matching pyjamas: tacky or joyful?, and why he hasn’t had a single mince pie yet.
The last one illustrates the main problem with being the spectre at the yuletide feast – by Tigger Santa standards – any element that hasn’t completely filled his heart with glee instantly becomes my fault/deliberate intention. I am the face of Christ-meh-as. But maybe, just maybe, he needs me in order to be him? Am I the enabler of this festive addiction? Perhaps he wouldn’t be able to fully lean into his “100% extra Jingle Bells” persona if he didn’t have my eye-rolling to rail against? What if, instead of being Scrooge, I am actually the true spirit of Christmas? No, I don’t think so either, but I’m still going to give it a go during tomorrow’s row.
• Polly Hudson is a freelance writer
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