CHRISTMAS TIME in primary school was the bomb – you got to do the nativity play, sing carols, and create festive masterpieces as ‘gifts’ for your parents.
But there was one activity that eclipsed them all: Writing Christmas cards. It was stressful. It was political. And it was taken extremely seriously.
Coming home one winter’s afternoon with a mission: Obtain 30 really cool and amazing Christmas cards
Cards that would blow everyone else in the class away. Cards with GLITTER.
“Here’s two euro. Off to the poundshop with you,” said your parents, gravely misunderstanding the importance of the situation.
Staying up into the night, sweating, carefully penning each one in your best joined-up writing
You’d swear you were composing a sonnet especially for each classmate, instead of writing “To Darragh/Rebecca/Conor. Happy Christmas. From Ciara” on each one.
Ensuring that the ‘best’ cards went to your closest friends
The ones with a bit of glitter or a particularly cute penguin on them were for your peeps ONLY. The shitey ones went to everyone else.
The sense of importance you got handing them out to everybody the next day
Hello fellow learners! It is I, come to bless your desk with my festive good wishes. No no, no need to thank me.
… And the absolute horror upon discovering someone bought the same cards as you
Oh GREAT. Thanks ORLA.
Forgetting someone and feeling as if you’d accidentally started World War III
Mumbling “Eh… I must have left it at home! I’ll bring it in tomorrow!”, like that would dry Caitriona’s lonely tears.
Or purposefully leaving people out, if you were that type of kid
Marie doesn’t just throw out “To X. Happy Christmas. From Marie” to just anyone, you know. Her cards are exclusive.
And looking at your card haul and feeling popular as f**k
Or alternatively, crestfallen on discovering that that fecker Marie hadn’t given you one. But you’d show her. Next year.
