I begin listening to Christmas soundtracks in September. I theorise decorations in October and, by November, I have made my way through a few chocolate Advent calendars. I have been this way for as long as I can remember.I begin listening to Christmas soundtracks in September. I theorise decorations in October and, by November, I have made my way through a few chocolate Advent calendars. Being born in late November means either embracing Christmas early or rejecting it entirely. I am a firm believer in the former. Each year, my birthday present was a Christmas tree in the corner of my bedroom, aglow with small golden lights and rosy-pink tinsel. I would wake to it, the sound of baubles rustling from wagging tails, my dogs excited by the commotion.
Each of my new years, new starts, begins with Christmas. I was born in London, where Christmas is celebrated so beautifully. I was raised in a loving family, where Christmas is spent enjoying each other’s company. And so the idea of finding myself in an unfamiliar place for the beginning of the holiday made me feel a sense of unease, another reason to dread the move to university. That is, until I experienced Christmas in Oxford.
Michaelmas term of my first year was laden with gaping holes. On the day I moved to Oxford, I spent the morning crying. I loved my hometown, I loved my school, and I loved the people I waved to everyday as I passed their windows. I loved my friends and my street and my childhood room. I spent the day rattled with nostalgia. University, to me, was a rug pulled out from under my feet too fast. I spent the first few weeks blurry-eyed, a feeling of homesickness mingled with lonesomeness that seemed to colour my every interaction. When late November came, I rushed home, determined to find some familiarity. I fell asleep the night before my 19th birthday with the genuine wish to wake up aged 13, or 15, or even 18 again, anything that meant I didn’t need to leave when the weekend was up. My birthday was spent safely within the confines of my comfort zone, the familiar Christmas lights blinking in the corner of my room, telling me I made the right choice.
I spent the train back thinking of the postcard of Oxford that has been pinned to my corkboard for years. How determined, how courageous, how passionate I’d been to have applied. How delighted I’d been to know my dream was becoming a reality. But I was filled with fear, terrified that I hadn’t found a home here yet. The walk between the station and college was silent. I remember the wheel of my suitcase getting stuck as I crossed to Broad Street, but when I turned, I saw the Christmas market for the first time. Music was playing, a song that looped around my living room on Christmas day, and I could smell a mixture of sweet and savoury, festive scents I knew from markets in London.
The first time I felt at home in Oxford was that very week. I remember walking into Blackwell’s and being enveloped by warmth, the kind that induces a sigh of relief and thaws frozen noses. I remember shopping for Oxford-themed gifts to bring back to my family, and the act brought a haze of excitement to sixth week that I hadn’t felt before. I remember dressing as reindeers with friends, laughing over shared make-up and cheap wine. While, throughout first year, I continued to feel slightly out-of-place and tentative, the Christmas season was a kind of olive branch, a gentle nudge from the city to take just one more step outside of my comfort zone.
Michaelmas term of my second year has been a slightly different story. Last year, I stood in awe of my college’s carol service, tucked away in the back row; this year I am performing. I walk to the chapel, bundled in a coat from last year’s wish-list, each and every step taken for that fearful girl on the train. This year, I attended Oxford’s ice-skating society from the very first week of term and have loved every moment of it. I hug friends tightly and play Christmas music while I brush my teeth. I stop and notice the fading light behind the Ashmolean and delight in sending letters through the post-boxes I know so well. I perform in a nativity and sit in the wings of dreamy theatres and spend my welfare week making medieval princess crowns. I choose to stay in Oxford for my 20th birthday. I feel at home.
So, as I set a small Christmas tree in the corner of my room – the one my grandmother sent with love – I feel an acute longing to reach across the divide of time. To that train, to the birthday girl of last year, to tug her hand firmly and, even for the briefest of moments, have her experience her new reality. The ups, the downs, and the Christmas lights that still warm the scene.
