Jackie McGregor: A tale of two Christmases: a lesson in gratitude on a Belfast roadside
I’ve turned into the Grinch. Not wanting to brave the boiling hot shops with the eyeball-singeing overhead lighting that makes me feel disorientated, I decided to do my Christmas shopping online - big mistake!
The gifts I’d bought weren't suitable; I needed to return them. Returns had to go to the manufacturer, not the retailer and I’d pre-paid for their return to the wrong place. I had to call customer services.
Mahir from the call centre had great difficulty understanding my Belfast accent, I found myself trying to speak like the late Queen.
He put me on hold and went and had a bath (well not really, but he could have, the length of time he took!)
When he finally came back 18 minutes later, I had my head in the fridge, sampling cheese, whilst contemplating what to make for dinner. So surprised was I by his return, I’d forgotten what I was ringing about in the first place.
He sent me a link to email someone else, my problem was obviously above his pay grade. I sighed deeply; this was turning into mission impossible; I suspected I’d have more luck acquiring a spare part for the Space Station.
Thinking shopping online would cut down on Christmas stress, I’d simply created more for myself.
According to a recent survey 56% of Belfast shoppers admitted feeling stressed about the process, though Northern Ireland shoppers came out on top as the most organised Christmas consumers in the UK, me not included!
I still had loads to organise.
As I marched hurriedly along the main road on route to the shops I made a mental list. Five presents still to buy, twenty cards to be written and sent, not forgetting five Air Mail which would mean one visit to the Post Office. There was one big grocery shop to do, three rolls of wrapping paper to buy, several rooms to be cleaned for visitors’ arrivals, twenty-four mince pies to bake and two gardens needed tidied.
Then I saw her, standing there in the twilight. Cars rushed past spraying her with puddle water, but she didn’t notice. She clasped the collar of her coat beneath her chin with one hand and held a yellow rose with the other. I’d seen her here before and she had brought me to a halt then, locals knew her plight, grief emulated from her every pore. My heart ached for her. I yearned to offer her comfort. I mentally swapped my “to-do” list for a prayer.
She stood at the site of the traffic accident where her 19-year-old-son had lost his life. The same age as my own son, who was healthy and at home. Here was a tale of two Christmases.
She kissed the rose, placed it amongst the other flowers, and bowed her head.
I felt ashamed. My Christmas was currently a series of numbers, numerous tasks to be ticked off making me feel Grinch-like, it seemed like such a hassle, when it was in fact a privilege to have these things to do for loved ones.
Here was I worrying about errands and what would go beneath the Christmas tree when so many individuals are facing empty chairs around the Christmas table, and in that moment, I stopped counting my chores and began counting my blessings.