Season’s greetings from the end of days

Ben Dillon laments the holly jolly hell of last-minute Christmas shopping

Not everyone enjoys the rush of the last-minute Christmas shop. Picture: Leah Farrell/RollingNews.ie

Have any of you ever heard of an orrery?

If you haven’t, it’s a model of the solar system that shows how the planets and their moons move in relation to one another.

I found out about them in September on a car journey with my dad.

We got to talking about how the Earth spins on its axis, and how it’s constantly rotating around the sun and the sun around it.

That’s when my dad mentioned an orrery and how it’d be a great item for the mantelpiece.

At that moment, I made a mental note to buy him one for Christmas. I’d buy it that very week and tick it off my list early.

Once I’d bought one present, I might even start picking up other bits and have my shopping wrapped up long before Mariah Carey and Shane McGowan commenced their annual takeover.

Of course, I didn’t actually buy the orrery.

In fact, I only looked up the word ‘orrery’ a few minutes ago so that I could use the correct spelling.

I didn’t check how much they cost. I didn’t check how extraordinarily long they take to arrive. (The one I’m looking at here appears to be shipped from Neptune itself.) For some unknown reason, I put Christmas shopping on the long finger.

And now, once again, I’m bracing myself for the apocalypse, ie shopping on Christmas Eve and bumping into others that are resigned to holly jolly hell.

There are, of course, two kinds of people you meet on Christmas Eve.

First, there are those that have their lives in order.

What's your view on this issue?

You can tell us here

They’re usually sporting a new winter hat and coat. They close their eyes when they laugh and seem to instinctively know their way around a scarf. They pronounce the ‘t’ in the word ‘often’ and have probably never missed a bin day in their entire smug little lives.

Their houses are, no doubt, chock-full of orreries.

Then there’s the other kind. When you bump into them they seem distracted and tense.

They scratch their forearms and fidget perpetually.

If you’re carrying bags, their shifty eyes force you to subconsciously tighten your grip on the handles.

They ask questions about what you bought your family, in the hope that something will finally click.

They might be nice people in real life, but on Christmas Eve, they are scavengers.

There are two types of people you meet on Christmas Eve, says Ben Dillon. Picture: Andy Gibson.

Smyths is the gathering place for the very worst of this kind. The people who stalk the aisles are a “sorry, we don’t have those in stock” away from total meltdown.

Not only are these people desperate, they’re double-jobbing.

Under their civilian clothing, they’re wearing a jolly red suit and will do everything in their power to fulfil that role.

If you accidentally stand between them and the last Cocomelon, there’s every chance they’ll rip your head clean off your torso.

Of course, the only thing that separates the two breeds is the passing of time.

At the end of November, it’s a level playing field and all is calm, all is bright. But as the calendar edges towards the 25th, desperation sets in and brains become muddled.

For the majority of the year, you feel like you know your loved ones. You know their likes and dislikes, and have it in you to buy them something that is both heartfelt and surprising in equal measure.

Come mid-December, you realise that your loved ones are just strangers you talk to occasionally and you know nothing of their interests.

You consider cocktail-making kits, novelty card game,s and pet memorabilia. You find yourself in TK Maxx, holding a magic kit, and wondering if it’s a suitable present for your mother.

At age 12, I had my first experience of this holiday desperation.

My mom handed me 30 quid at the start of December and instructed me to buy one present each for my four siblings.

'Come mid-December, you realise that your loved ones are just strangers you talk to occasionally and you know nothing of their interests'. Picture: Andy Gibson

Then time skipped unexpectedly. Before I knew it I was in my room on Christmas Eve, wrapping a chocolate photograph of the Simpsons family, along with a note that read ‘To Everyone, Love Ben’.

If you want to know what a chocolate photograph tastes like, feel free to lick today's copy of the Irish Examiner.

One of my great ambitions is to be one of those Christmas Eve revellers who is organised, unfazed and smug. When I’ve reached those heights, I’ll look down on the scavengers and question why they do it to themselves.

I’ll walk the streets unburdened by shopping bags, sending a subliminal message to everyone about my present-buying prowess and holiday season social standing.

But that dream will have to wait until next year. This year will play out in a familiar way. On Christmas morning my dad will make do with what’s in front of him. 

He’ll have no idea that I remembered our car journey and the planetary conversation we enjoyed. 

He’ll have forgotten all about orreries and simply be happy that I haven’t forgotten about him.

Maybe, when he looks up at me, he’ll understand that I wanted to do so much better. I wanted to give him the whole universe but came up short. Life got in the way and it became all too much. Then, possibly, he’ll look down at his chocolate portrait of Homer and Bart, and smile.