Lies, Damn Lies, and Christmas.

I lied to my mother the other day, probably for the first time in 15 or so years. Don't get me wrong, I'm not some kind of open book to be read, every detail of my life pouring forth. I have been selective with the things I have chosen to share with her and have even gone as far as to gently tell her that I won't discuss or divulge certain things with her when she has asked. But to tell an outright lie? Okay, so it was hardly the biggest of untruths, trivial one might even say, and it was done out of kindness - a little white lie that she will never discover and will have given her one tiny piece of happiness. I told her I had put my presents under my "Christmas tree".

My choice of punctuation here is defined by the fact that what I actually have does not really count as a real Christmas tree, in my book at least. It is, in fact, two pieces of green, red and gold painted wood that have been fashioned in such a way that, when slotted together, they form a standard Christmas tree shape, roughly 18 inch tall. Ma bought it for me when she was over for the holidays last year to make my flat seem more Christmassy... wait, that's not exactly correct. I should say that Ma tried to buy one for me whilst we were out, but I told her that I neither needed or wanted one. I then discovered two days later that despite being together practically 24/7 she had somehow managed to sneak out, buy one and smuggle it back in, erecting it in a place where it would be visible yet not immediately obvious, thus ensuring that it's presence would gradually dawn on me rather that hit me full on. I tell you, despite her pleasant, friendly exterior she's a devious one!

It may by now be apparent that I am not what one would describe as a "Festive" individual. I have no love of greetings-card occasions and even my own birthday is little more than another night out, albeit one where other people pay for most of the drinks. But Christmas holds a special place in my apathy gland, with its incoherent mix of Christianity, commercialism and, latterly, political-correctness. Here in Purgatory the situation is compounded by the two entire months of decorations and Christmas songs prior to the day itself and the fact that, in such a tropical climate, it simply doesn't feel like Christmas anyway. Add that to the fact that this is a multi-cultural multi-faith society with religious and ethnic holidays dotted all over the year and enough non-Christian staff to keep most of the shops open on December 25th anyway and it just becomes, for me, a day off work (although as I will be at the bosses house for dinner this year we will probably end up talking shop anyway... whatchagonnado, eh?).

Ma, bless her, has an enthusiasm that borders on being child-like. I have not lived at her home for well over a decade, yet she still sends me a stocking filled with mini-presents every year, just like the ones I used to get from Santa. It's usually all completely useless crap that clutters my place up, but I know it's the thought that counts. She has always been aware of my adult lack of enthusiasm yet is unflinching in her efforts to inject me with at least a little seasonal cheer - and so my Christmasses had become a cliched BBC sitcom with me the miserable Scrooge-type being badgered into having "fun" to discover the true meaning of it all. Which I always coped with admirably by buggering off to the pub, something easy to do back home where she could always move on to the next friend or family member.

This time last year Ma was seriously grating on me. She was halfway through a fortnight visit during rainy season and we had been largely cooped up together in my flat or in small bars and cafes. As the only person she knew here buggering off to the pub simply wasn't an option - and now she had bought me a crappy wooden fucking Christmas tree. I may not have hidden my contempt as well as I could have, for her usual cheeriness was still evident yet muted and almost apologetic. I was just looking to get through that day, waiting for Christmas morning to arrive, not so I could open presents but so I could drag Ma down to the hotel where we would be lunching with my friend Cocoa, whose mum was also over visiting - I knew that, with there being eight of us, I would at least get some other conversation and would be able to pawn her off on the others from time to time. Yes, I am a bastard sometimes. Aren't we all?

The 25th dawned, we exchanged presents (hers to me - a beautiful miniature Mah Jong she had remembered me saying I would one day buy; mine to her - something so thoughtless that I cannot even remember), got dressed and made our way to meet the others. Lunch was a free-flow booze event, which meant little to my moderate Ma but suited myself and the others down to the ground, and by 3pm we were, to be frank, not far from shit-faced. Ma was enjoying herself, though - I perhaps hadn't realised that she had maybe also been finding it hard work with only me for company. The free-flow ended and we headed off to the plastic Irish pub down the road, meeting some other friends along the way, and proceeded to get steadily unintelligible. Once or twice Ma suggested that we head home, but one or other of us always managed to persuade her to stay for "one more". All seemed well...

About 8pm Ma and I stepped outside to call the family in the UK. For me it was just one of those obligations I had, and the alcohol ensured I got through it breezily, asking each person what they got, thanking them for what I got, telling everyone what the temperature was here - to be honest I may as well have used an automated recording of my voice. Ma, on the other hand, was asking them to go into details about what they had done that morning, what they would do later... and as she spoke I saw tears welling up in her eyes, and it began to dawn on me.

When she finished on the 'phone I asked if she was okay. She immediately burst into tears. In my apathy, my selfish indifference to Christmas, I had failed to realise just what she had given up to spend just a little time with her son. She had tried so hard to do it my way, to not put me out, but she was missing her own mother, her brother and sister, her other son and daughter. She was missing sitting around a tree opening the presents, going for a walk in the bracing air, going to the Christmas church service, playing board games in the evening by a roaring log fire. She was in an alien country with people she had only known a few days and I, her only link to those things she was missing, had become one of the aliens.

We went home shortly after. Over the next few days the rain eased up and we managed to see a few sights, visit a few places. She still got on my nerves - I don't think you can ever do anything about something like that - but I made sure it didn't show.

I haven't put up the tree this year. It's not really my thing and, to be honest, I am working so much I have barely spent five minutes in my flat and it's currently an absolute mess. I haven't even taken the presents that my family sent me out of the box they were posted in. You see, I didn't go through that BBC sitcom epiphany that should have left me the jolliest man on the block after last year. In fact my outlook didn't change at all. Except in one crucial way...

I lied to my mother the other day. It was probably the best Christmas present I could give her.