Merry Memories

It finally happened.

After years of university and house-sharing, this weekend marked a momentous occasion.

My very first ‘house’ Christmas.

I feel as though they should make frames bearing that phrase. In fact, it would come as no shock to me to discover they do.

To tell you the truth, we were all so merrily distracted that we forgot to take a single photo and whilst I ever so slightly wish we’d captured the magic, the pixels wouldn’t do it justice.

There’s something truly touching about the realisation that those twelve plus hours of genuine, uninterrupted joy will always only be known to the eight of us.

Ever the sentimentalist, already I know that yesterday will be one I remember when I finally take that moment to look back on my life.

It was everything living should be.

I ate ravenously. I drank like a fish. I laughed without inhibition.

We laughed without inhibition.

And it was glorious.

The ‘house’ Christmas is a curious thing.

There is, to my knowledge, no other occasion celebrated in identical fashion twice.

Logically, you’d think enthusiasm for such a saga would be as thin on the ground as a blanket of snow in southern England.

Instead, we peel and parboil en masse, with Fairytale of New York blasting through the speakers.

Living with friends arguably became a cultural phenomenon relatively recently, as attested to by the immense and enduring power of, yes, Friends, and its various 90s TV show counterparts.

Now we don’t even question it. It’s become a natural part of so many people’s journeys to adulthood and whilst it can be tricky at times, I am so grateful that it is.

Without house and flat sharing, my life and the people in it would look very different.

And I, like many others, wouldn’t have had Decembers that were nearly so much fun.

The ‘house’ Christmas is majestic, but so too is the ever-increasing energy that hits communal dwellings everywhere in early November.

Festivities in early November are just that. Early. For the majority of people living with the loved ones they’ll be spending the big day with, the slightest hint of tinsel prior to the 1st is enough to send them further over the edge than Bridget Jones.

That is, of course, the bittersweet thing about the ‘house’ Christmas. Come mid-December, everyone will be preparing to prance home, therefore you make the choice.

Either you buy a tree and dig out the fairy lights on a random November night, or you panic come December 5th when you realise there’s only 10 days to go until all is calm and nothing is bright.

Generosity of spirit is often only spoken of at this time of year. It’s presence is contemplated as uncommonly beautiful, a rarity to be relished for as long as the glittering decorations appear with aplomb.

That’s not the case.

It’s always there.

And with good housemates, every day is full of it.

I Wonder

I often wonder if I’d been born in a different time whether I’d challenge, or simply uphold the status quo.

I hope the former. I hope not the latter.

But I think I’d likely follow.

It’s a thought which possesses the annoying tendency to unexpectedly drift across my mind at the most inopportune moments; more often than not when I’m driving.

Fortunately, this time I had a pen to hand. An actual pen.

I was quietly amused by how symbolically satisfying I found this to be. Somehow it felt as though this perfectly usual act brought me a little closer to the subversive efforts of those I most admire.

Ever since I first developed something akin to self-awareness, I’ve been softly and silently hypnotised by those who seemingly have the uncommon ability to disregard what others think of them. Or at the very least, not let it guide their convictions.

Oscar Wilde. Nora Ephron. Luna Lovegood. Shirley Chisholm. Alan Turing. Mary Wollstonecraft. Jo March.

There are without doubt others, but these are the ones that presently capture my imagination.

I confess I know next to nothing about each of them, Luna Lovegood aside.

But what I know, I like.

I realise that it’s uncomfortably easy to fall in love with the idea of a person as opposed to the person themselves.

I know too that each individual and their closest confidantes would probably tell me that the shadow to the left of the distinctive figure is in fact rather different in stature.

Awareness of this is one thing. Intrigue in the feeling such icons incite is another.

The intoxicating magic of the inspirational is apparently unaffected by the presence of an interior life. Complications carry no weight. On the condition they don’t break the spell, they simply serve to venerate.

That’s where my infatuation lies.

Exploring the minutiae of every person’s life is invariably interesting. Frequently, I find myself examining the behaviour of total strangers in the street, considering what led them to do or say something and whether it will turn out to be one of the defining moments of their lives.

I suspect they seldom are, but it makes going to Sainsbury’s ever so much more exciting.

Whilst this may be one of my favourite pastimes, I don’t find the delight to be in the detail when it comes to those I, or others, revere.

Understanding their influence on an extraordinary collection of psyches; now that’s enthralling.

Precisely why each of those people are on my mind is something intelligible to me.

Exactly why they’re on others’ isn’t.

Even having read this, you’ll never truly understand how my interpretation of all those for whom I reserve adoration gently incline me toward ingenuity.

And I’ll never faithfully perceive your paragons either.

I’m still unsure as to whether originality honestly exists. Nevertheless, I’m certain that individuality does.

The distinction lies in the fact that all of us are one and none of us are the other.

Yet admittedly, the two are arguably interchangeable.

Perhaps then we should give credit where credit’s due. We may not all be avant-garde and indeed some of us may well be the opposite.

But we are individuals. Individuals who choose to pursue certain paths every day.

Who’s to say which one of us may set myriad others wandering?

Subtle Symmetry

Watching the seasons change has brought me exceptional joy this year and as my world imperceptibly transitions into winter, I can’t help but feel content with my earnest appreciation of nature’s curious habits.

With little else to mark the passing of time, we have perhaps begun to observe periods of our lives in a manner more akin to that of our ancestors.

Rather than referring to the weekend of ‘that party’, I’ve come to think of weeks as represented by ‘that plant’ instead.

In March, the spring flowers assertively propelling themselves through the earth inevitably introduced a small smile to my face with each commute.

In October, the autumnal avenue of trees glittering in the seasonal sun provoked something profoundly warm within me.

Whilst I harbour a tender love for seeing the world’s flora flourish and fade, I’m fortunate to be able to bring pockets of the outdoors into the heart of my home.

I remember once hearing of an article that cannily claimed my generation are so preoccupied with acquiring houseplants that we’ve forgotten about the importance of owning the home said plants are sitting in.

If only it was as easy as popping to the shops to buy a nice pot.

In lieu of revelling in the security of so-called fixed assets, I believe we are actually learning a more perspicacious lesson.

Although the attraction of houseplants and bouquets may lie in their obvious charm, they require dedication, care and compassion.

They remind me too that whilst the boscage we so admire possesses an innate fragility, it has long outlived and will outlast us all.

My favourite flower is Gypsophila, more commonly known as ‘Baby’s Breath’.

Coincidentally, I recently discovered it’s also recognised as ‘Bristol Fairy’, making its poignancy all the greater being that this is the city I hail from.

I’m drawn to them because they’re sweetly understated. To me, this mass of cloudy white blooms captures the essence of ephemerality, gently juxtaposing exquisite delicacy with robust beauty.

Of course, this argument can be made for any natural entity. Despite not wishing to admit it, we too attest to life’s fleeting disposition.

But I think we and our horticultural counterparts are rather alike and not just in this undeniably bittersweet way.

Freshly meeting many new minds means I’ve been nudged into once again acknowledging that it takes both time and empathy to truly come to know someone.

A beautifully vital part of this process is accepting that we are as frangible as petals.

An equally crucial element is recognising that there’s an inherent strength in the whole.

It may seem trivial and tenuous, or nebulous and negligible, but I don’t think it can only by I who thinks this way.

After all, there are far worse things to invest in than the life-affirming attributes of greenery.