Back to the 1950s

Trust Me, I’ve been there

BY ZOE WILLIAMS
THE world does not approve of the winter break. Oh, it pretends to, with its fancy words like “winter break” and “après ski”. But then you notice most holidaying in the chilly season is really just sport, dressed up as a holiday.

While both Christians and non-Christians take extremely seriously the notion of Easter, can anyone take a moment to explain why we have no Halloween away days? How is it that we’ll go to Barcelona just to see out summer, yet won’t even leave our postcodes for bonfire night?

It is a function of the cold, cross-referenced with a post-war British austerity that the cold brings out in us. One chill and we think we’re in the 1950s. What did people do in the 1950s? Local activities, that’s what. I didn’t realise this, I thought the post-war effort was just powdered banana and a colouring-in pencil instead of a pair of tights. But apparently councils also organised bonanzas to keep people away from spendthrift activities like going to nice places where there were shops.

I don’t know what these events were. I asked an old person – let’s call her my mother – and all she could remember were rows and rows of closed cafés, a generalised air of abandoned fun. Suffice it to say, all that remains of that civic-minded era is the fireworks. Everyone understands fireworks, everyone shells out for them. Local councils that are too tight to collect rubbish or have roads nevertheless understand it is their duty to have a proper display, complete with fake “Ooh, what do you think will happen?” build-up and fake “Wow, it got really good at the end!” climax.

And we all go along with it pretending not to be bored, pretending to find the Halloweeners cute, pretending to be excited about the fair, pretending not to feel sick on the twister, pretending not to feel sick eating the candy floss, pretending not to feel sick while actually being sick. It’s a great big conspiracy of kindness, laden with niceties like a deadly Christmas that not one of us has managed to get out of.

I was going to say get out, get out while you still can, save yourself, it doesn’t matter if France is also cold, at least it’s different and probably has a street market or two with salamis you haven’t tasted. But, in fact, I think it is cute, so long as you don’t feel hard done by, so long as you embrace the localness and pin a smile on your face. “It might be council tax going up in pink smoke,” you may wonder. “But at least it’s my council tax. I may be cold, but at least I don’t have to decide what thermals to buy, I have them all, right here in my thermals drawer.”