When my son was little, he and I made a pact every year to not do anything even remotely related to Christmas until 1 November. No matter how tempted we were when all the Christmas biscuits started appearing in the shops around the middle of October, and no matter how much I wanted to dive into the Christmas films.
And then, seven years ago, my father died on 1 November. I like to think he waited till October was over because he knew it was my favourite month and didn’t want to darken it for me. Now I distract myself from the grief of 1 November by diving into the biscuits and the films. Apparently my son had the same idea, we both watched Die Hard over the weekend. And yes it is a Christmas film!
But there’s sad lack of Christmas books in the shop. I had three, now I’m down to two because someone bought Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. I’d love be able to create a display of Christmas books, stories that, like those (sometimes awful) Christmas films, remind us that there is a little magic in the world this time of year.
Don’t we, now more than ever, need the stories where the little independent inn/candle factory/bakery/newspaper/Christmas tree farm vanquishes the big evil corporation and shows us that there is more to life than bonuses and commission cheques, and that AI will not push us out into the cold?
It’s only 3 November and I’m already on my sixth Christmas film. Maybe I need to believe in those stories? Maybe I need to believe that one day I can leave the corporate job behind and be the little independent who makes magic at Christmas?
And what are books if not magic?
The Story Cellar 