Being the oversensitive, melodramatic soul that I am, it probably won’t surprise you to hear that I used to get mildly worked up about the subject of Tradition. Christmases, birthdays, Easter egg hunts… for me, the essence of family – yes, maybe even Life Itself – was doing the exact same thing, over and over, year on year. To mess with my established world order, as my mother so often inexplicably threatened, would be to invite CHAOS and DISORDER into our cosy domestic sphere.
Having Christmas dinner at ours rather than my grandmother’s? Unthinkable. Spending my birthday abroad rather than at home? Inconceivable. Dispensing with annual easter egg hunts once the average age of her children inched its way over 20? ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME WOMAN IT’S BLOODY TRADITION.
I realise my natural impulse is to obsess about the past. I also realise this impulse is far from healthy. Weeping over old home videos is no way for anyone to spend their Saturday nights, let alone a London-dwelling twenty-five year old man. The obvious irony is that I get nostalgic for events I actually barely acknowledged at the time – I’d have been too busy brooding about something else from the year previously to pay any attention.
Life has forced me to grow up and accept things cannot stay the same, no matter how much I’d like to lock everyone in my grandmother’s living room and force them to recreate the Christmases of my early childhood. People change. Houses get sold. What made sense in 1994 doesn’t necessarily translate to life in 2013, as Whigfield knows only too well. I myself hammered the final nail in the Haig Family Easter Egg Hunt’s coffin by moving two hundred miles away, and that’s okay.
That said, if anyone tries to tell me I can’t watch Eurovision every year with scorecards and bunting I’ll TEAR THEIR FUCKING EYES OUT.
This is all part of my ridiculously ill-judged attempt to Blog Every Day in May. This is not a tradition I plan on repeating.