My Life on a Plate

Tell Me Why I Don't Like Humbug

I hope I don’t make enemies through this entry and I will say first off I realise most people enjoy this time of year and I hold nothing against them for that. I understand the pleasure of celebrating with family and enjoying some time away from the daily grind, but sad to say I despise this ‘season’ I refer to as Humbug. Believe me you couldn’t call me any name I haven’t heard before – misery guts, killjoy, warped, sad old cow, Scrooge are amongst the more polite ones.

I have been asked to explain and analyse why I feel this way and quite understand those who leave now because they don’t want their high spirits affected. Pause here…listen to the sound of retreating footsteps and doors slamming.

Okay, anyone left? No matter, I maybe need to do the self-analysis thing anyway.

Naturally, as a child I was excited by the prospect of new toys, good things to eat and drink and parties at school. But even then there was an underlying inexplicable sadness. Maybe due to the fact I lived in a small house with three generations where family tensions were evident all the time and heightened at times when the whole family were forced together. And I hated those male cousins of mine who visited every year with their noisy, brash behaviour, ridiculing my new soft toys and breaking the lovely things I intended to treasure. All together now…awwww poor Scarlett. Lol

During teenage years and in a new home with just my parents and older sister who was my arch enemy at the time, things deteriorated. I was a troublesome teenager and wanted to be out with my friends, not stuck at home with a dysfunctional family. I sulked at not being allowed to play my new records, having to endure the Queen’s speech and resented the visit of grandparents and those even more obnoxious cousins. Selfish maybe, but teenage years are notably difficult ones for many.

I remember one particular year when The Beatles ‘Magical Mystery Tour’ was to be broadcast on television for the first time. Parents gave in to my demands to watch it despite reservations as to how my grandmother would respond. Sure enough half way through the film some dancing girls arrived on the scene showing a small amount of cleavage and an inch of thigh. Grandma predictably hit the roof.

“Come on our Percy, we’re going home NOW.’

Off went the television, out came the playing cards and rum bottle and ruffled feathers were smoothed. Except mine…Louder now…awwww poor Scarlett. Lol

In later years before I married and moved away, I remember the Christmas Day we received a call informing us my American grandpa or ‘Pops’ as I called him had passed away. A week later another call to say my dad’s only brother had died – one of the few times I’ve seen my father cry.

There is much more so this will be Part 1 of my analysis. You may leave now – muttering ‘Grumpy old Woman,’ or other carefully chosen words. But before you do just one more time... awwww poor Scarlett