Feral Musings

Christmas Spirit: Missing, Presumed Dead

The Intro (aka: Festive Breakdown)

There is no Christmas spirit in this house.

Not even the alcoholic kind.

My tree went up late. My decorations are still sulking in boxes. There are no presents under the tree. None. Just a sad, empty space that screams “you failed at December.”

I asked Santa for a five‑night stay in Disneyland Paris, half board at the Disneyland Hotel. What did I get? A place on the bad list. Apparently bitching about wheelie bins disqualifies you from luxury breaks. Who knew?

So here I am, staring at my sad flashing window lights, which don’t twinkle so much as they taunt. They’re not festive. They’re passive‑aggressive. They’re basically saying: “Look at you, Tracey. You used to be Miss Christmas. Now you’re Miss Can’t‑Be‑Arsed.”

The Ghost of Christmas Past

Once upon a time, I was Miss Christmas. I didn’t just enjoy the season — I was the season.

There were the Friday night shopping marathons with my sister. We’d head out because we were bored, forget to come home, and suddenly it was 1am and we were still wandering shops like feral elves. Then, like lunatics, we’d drag ourselves into work at 9am Saturday, bleary‑eyed but smug because we’d survived the chaos.

And then there was the Trafford Centre trip — the big annual tradition. It started as a one‑day mission until the year Primark opened. That changed everything. By 7pm we’d only managed Primark, so we booked a Travelodge and carried on the next day. It was ridiculous, exhausting, and perfect. That became the tradition… until Covid slammed the brakes on it.

There were also the late‑night drives to see the lights on people’s houses. Whole streets lit up like they were competing for the National Grid’s attention. And I’d sit there wondering if they had a WhatsApp group to coordinate it all. Because honestly, how else do you get that level of synchronised sparkle?

And the movie marathons. Christmas jumpers, Christmas mugs, and definitely Christmas alcohol. The kind of nights where you’re half‑watching Love Actually while pretending you’re not crying at Emma Thompson, and sipping something strong enough to make you forget you’ve still got half your shopping left to do. That was my chaos. That was my joy.

Now? I pout at my half‑hearted tree like a teenager who’s been grounded.

The Ghost of Christmas Present

This year? I’m waiting for Boxing Day.

Because the Christmas spirit has left the building.

Not because it’s Stranger Things Day (well, not entirely). Hello, can we talk about Will iykyk.

Instead of festive joy, I’ve got decorations that never made it to their rightful places, a tree that looks like it gave up halfway through, and the faint hum of disappointment echoing through the house.

No mince pies. No chocolates demolished. No sparkle.

Just me. And Olivia — who’s still clinging to Christmas spirit for now, until her hairdressing clients run her into the ground.

Christmas movies have been on in the background, but I still haven’t even watched Elf. That’s a crime in itself. Honestly, someone call the festive police.

I keep waiting for the magic to kick in, but all I get is exhaustion.

I’m not festive. I’m feral.

I’m not twinkling. I’m twitching.

I’m not decking the halls. I’m barely decking myself out of bed.

The Ghost of Christmas Future

I don’t even wish it could be Christmas every day.

I just want someone to find the old Tracey — the one who lived for Friday night chaos, Trafford Centre marathons, late‑night light drives, and movie binges with jumpers, mugs, and Christmas alcohol — and give her a shout.

Because she’s clearly wandered off.

And I’m stuck here, sulking, waiting for Boxing Day like it’s salvation.

Maybe 2026 will be my comeback tour. Until then, send HRT patches, send vodka, send help.

Christmas Spirit: Missing, Presumed Dead

Apply Within. Must Bring Mince Pies and Disneyland Tickets.