I can’t quite believe that Christmas jumpers are in this year, despite the fact that both Child One and Child Two want one (they NEVER want the same thing usually) and despite seeing them in every shop window/magazine feature/and actually even on real live ‘normal’ people walking around town.
Aren’t Christmas jumpers the last word in naff, as in Colin Firth resplendent in his Rudolph jumper at Bridget Jones’s parents’ notorious turkey buffet? Though I do think Colin just about managed to pull it off, but that was only because he is Colin Firth. No one else, surely, can get away with robins, reindeers, snowflakes, Santas or even hectic nordic patterns?
After staggering around Bluewater on Saturday with the girls, I was more convinced than ever that the Christmas jumper fetish was some sort of global post-modern irony thing. They loomed out at me from every window, hugely expensive, wearable for about two weeks now, and just completely silly. All right, I know there was a big charity fundraising thingy last week, and of course I’m all in favour of that, but actually putting on one of these woolly abominations? No.
Then, yesterday, I finally thought the girls had seen sense. We were talking, yet again, about festive jumpers. ‘But it’s only ten days till Christmas!’ I said, exasperated. ‘Oh yes, you’re right,’ said Child One, an expression of enlightenment all over her lovely face. ‘So you’ve seen sense, you realise you could only wear it for less than a fortnight, and you don’t want one any more?’ I said, leaning forward. ‘No, I just realised that the ones in Jack Wills will be reduced on Boxing Day. So I’ll get one then,’ she said with a radiant smile. Sigh.
