had a profound effect on my life; that simple one day a month has the power to restore my flagging enthusiasm for life in the way that so many exotic vacations in the past have utterly failed to.
That said, not every Boxing Day has been a rip-roaring success. Most of the time that’s just because life’s like that, but I’ve also discovered that Boxing Day has enemies that like to skulk around in the shadows, waiting for their chance to mess things up.
Fortunately, my suffering doesn’t need to be your suffering. Here’s the spotters guide to common Boxing Day problems.
‘Excuse me, but have you just told me what to do?’
Perhaps the strangest (for me) feedback I get from readers are those people who like the idea of Boxing Day, can see the value of a diary, and would be prepared to take on some of the other ideas in the book, but can’t, because they have an in-built resistance to being told what to do.
Now personally, so long as I can see the sense in something and I’m not feeling ‘oppressed’, I love being told what to do. It appeals to my very masculine, somewhat nerdy, love of manuals. Give me a step-by-step guide that gets me from A to B with the minimum amount of thought and I’m happy. But if you’ve spent a lifetime being bossed about, then I can see how you’d object to me telling you to do X, Y and Z.
So let’s take me out of the equation.
You downloaded this ebook. You decided to read it. You get to decide what you like about it and what you don’t. You’ll decide what might work, what wouldn’t, and what’s worth a try. And finally, you’ll decide when and how to proceed.
It’s all about you.
I’ll be over here if you need me.
‘Haven’t you re-invented Saturday?’
Not everybody is able to see how a Boxing Day might be a good thing. Some people – let’s call them ‘young people’ – tend to look at me blankly for a moment or two before asking me how a Boxing Day differs from, say, Saturday. Or Sunday. Or virtually any other day of the week when they’re not at college. Which seems to be most days.
Before I became the grumpy old sod you see before you now, Saturdays were sacred and followed a very strict routine: I would roll out of bed around midday, and settle down with a bowl of cornflakes in front of The Chart Show before considering whether I should wander down to the town centre to ‘mooch about’.
This relaxed state of affairs continued throughout my teens and twenties, and might have continued into my thirties if it hadn’t been for the arrival of …
The postman.
If you’re in your early twenties you’ve probably yet to appreciate the sheer amount of admin that awaits you the moment you get a bank account, a loan, a credit card, a car, or move into a place of your own. Suddenly there’s a mountain of paperwork to be addressed, most of it hidden amongst an even bigger mountain of junk from people trying to sell you stuff. And whilst you can (as I did) leave this stuff on the side in the hope that it’ll kind of sort itself out, I don’t recommend it. Handing over your money to these organisations is only part of the payment required – the remainder is due in time, sorting out all manner of insurances, MOT certificates, and taxes of numerous flavours. And that’s assuming that you never miss a payment, your car never needs fixing, your boiler never packs up, and the Gas Board doesn’t decide to change your supplier without your knowledge. If you manage to juggle all this nonsense without surrendering the occasional Saturday I take my hat off to you. Personally I’d developed a morbid fear of ‘post’ by the time I was thirty.
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