So, it’s just about Christmas, three sleeps to go.

This year I have been rolling a couple of festive seasons into one, having essentially lost last Christmas due to, well, having my entire world fall apart around me. I guess I’ve been overcompensating, but what the hell, I’ve actually been enjoying the run up to the big day that’s three sleeps away.

There’s a gammon thing that’s soaking in cider and spices in a huge pot, waiting to be cooked tomorrow. Cranberries are in the fridge: they’ll be turned into some sort of jelly that I won’t touch with a bargepole. The outhouse is playing host to bags of sprouts, carrots, potatoes, parsnips… and a swede… that will all be turned into edible delights (with the exception of the carrots and swede) on Christmas Day. The turkey arrives tomorrow and I’ve cleared and cleaned the fridge in preparation for it.

I am going to try to make this festive period special, because it is. I have my beautiful niece, six in March. She’s at that perfect age when everything should be magical. Next year, I’ve no idea how Christmas will feel for her, so I need to make this year as good as possible. In conjunction with this is the uncertainty surrounding the health of my parents. They’ll probably be absolutely fine next year and for many years to come, but I can only be certain of their health this Christmas. Nanna + Nonno + Little Con = magical Christmas 2012.

Now, here’s the question: is my enthusiasm for this Christmas some sort of distraction from the fact that I’m terribly lonely and so desperate to have the love of my life back with me? Possibly. Would I give up this Christmas for a chance of having her back? Yes? No, actually, no I wouldn’t*. There are few things that we can rely on in our lives. The only thing that I’ve ever been able to rely on is my family. My stupid, argumentative, irritating, borderline-dysfunctional family.

People can tell you they love you; they’ll look you in the eyes with a look that can surely only be reserved for you alone, and they’ll tell you they love you. Unfortunately, words are just words for some, what matters is knowing that the people whom you find so exasperating, so fucking embarrassing, so making you wish you were adopted, it’s knowing that these irritating bastards are always there for you. And I am duty-bound to love them and be there for them, and smile, and shout. Because that’s what we do.

Love is agony. It’s a real, physical pain that is only ever relieved when you are with the person who you love. In those special moments when you are together, the agony is transformed into joy, contentment, being: you are whole when in the presence of that most special person. I’ve spent a year dealing with the agony and I’m happy to admit that I’m still in a lot of pain, having a whole lump of something torn from my being. But I guess I’ve been lucky in that I’ve become the recipient of a big bundle of joy from a beautiful little girl who is slightly embarrassed to be with me. My work with her is done.

A postscript
*I’m in the strange emotional hinterland where I’m almost letting go, accepting singledom as my destiny and I’m kind of OK with that, but my goodness, I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t take her back. You don’t proclaim somebody to be the love of your life easily, unless you’re a total moron, so when you find “the one” it’s so terribly difficult to believe that there could ever be another who is truly deserving of that title. But “the one” wasn’t deserving in the end anyway.

I shall go away and punch myself in the head for a while. Much easier to cope with than love and the scars don’t last too long either.