Lindsay Woods: The last thing I need is to be told that an item of clothing is going to transform me into some sort of maniac disco queen and that I will instantly achieve happiness akin to utter nirvana

IT’S October. That can only mean… ghouls, goblins and witches, yes? Nay, dear reader… It means Christmas!

The festive onslaught commences earlier each year. Full disclosure: I revel in all the glitter-coated antics of the season. However, I understand the annoyance and pressured connotations of seeing your supermarket rack out shelves of selection boxes in August.

Yet, there is a new slant on Yuletide preparations. Not only is it not enough to have your home bedecked in festive finery, you, as a woman, must prepare yourself to slip into a slinky LBD to live your best life.

I say women, because this type of nonsense is directed very rarely, if at all, at men. It isn’t enough that, for the bulk of the year, we must be ‘bikini ready: your four-week guide, including a delicious juice cleanse’; ‘Patrick’s Day ready: just eat shamrock for the week’; ‘Easter ready: no chocolate eggs for you!’ and all the other tripe in between. No, now we must be ‘LBD ready: hold the turkey’.

I’ve had enough. Enough of it all.

Women are the ones responsible for most of the preparations for Christmas. We organise gifts, cards, dinner, visits to relatives, a curt conversation with Mr.C to keep him on the straight and narrow; all with absolute military precision.

The conclusion of such feverish organisation is that I’m like an insomniac pigeon.

Therefore, the last thing I need is to be told that an item of clothing is going to transform me into some sort of maniac disco queen and that I will instantly achieve happiness akin to utter nirvana. All as the result of a frock.

No. What I will need is the following: a bowl of pudding with lashings of custard, a stiff drink, my pyjamas, and a lie down. Possibly two paracetamol, also, with a Downton Abbey special to put the world to rights. We are constantly being sold the rhetoric of the ‘perfect size’. That if we are of a certain measurement, that we will be happier, more successful, and healthier. That our minds will be restful.

I do not want my children growing up believing their worth is based upon a number on a scales or their waist measurement. I never want them to hear, ‘Oh, if you only lost that tummy, you’d look great’, or, worse, ‘You’ve such a pretty face’, offered as some abysmal compensation for the aforementioned tummy comment.

As women, I would like us to stop greeting each other with, ‘Oh, you’ve lost weight!’, as if it is some from of bleak, ‘Well done you’.

So, for what it is worth, here is what I plan on doing to ensure my health and wellbeing are in tip-top working order from now until the tree goes up (spoiler: it won’t contain an LBD):

Getting the flu jab. Not sexy. One hundred per cent necessary.

Having a winter check done on the car. If you have children, the car pretty much becomes that second property you dreamed of owning as a holiday bolthole. But you won’t ever own that beachside cottage. Because you have children. So, look after your car, treat her right; she is your beachside cottage.

Baking. A lot. And eating it.

Making stews. A lot. And eating them.

Buying all of the flannel pyjamas and thick socks. Wearing them as I recline at ‘Club Sofa’ in my sitting room.

Opening that really good bottle (lies, we don’t have any left). Opening the Aldi special-offer bottle with himself and committing to watching an episode of the newest series everyone is talking about and not falling asleep until we have watched at least ten minutes.

Drag/walk with my family through various woods, admiring the wonderous change of the seasons.

Talk loudly of same to drown out the whining from my children.

Commit to compiling the shopping list, so as to do it online this year and have it delivered in a timely and orderly fashion straight to our door. This one is a bit fruitless, as we will still end up the morning of the 24th hissing at each other in a gridlocked dairy section, as to why we just didn’t order everything online.

What I won’t do is conform to some outdated stereotype of what I, as a woman, should be. Because I’ll be far too busy spending time with family and friends, toasting, roasting, and eating.

I fully intend on commencing same at this very juncture. Because, if the notion takes me, my flannel pyjamas might fancy a spin on the dancefloor.

@thegirlinthepaper