White Christmas

There is nothing as wonderful in the world as the imagination. No matter where you are in the world, and no matter what you're doing, you are never far away from where you want to be.

Today - for me - is Christmas Eve. It doesn't matter that it's sunny outside; it doesn't matter that everywhere is open; it doesn't matter that it means nothing in Japan; it doesn't matter that I am on my own. Today is Christmas Eve, and so I have made my own Christmas. Nat King Cole and Judy Garland are singing as loudly as I dare play them in a flat made of paper, I have peeled a couple of oranges and left them around my flat, and I've lit a couple of hazardous candles. A pile of parcels and cards from England are sitting in a pile on my table, and I'm humming to carols while I make my Christmas Eve dinner (chocolate followed by another helping of chocolate, which is pretty much what I'd eat at home as well). It's A Wonderful Life is up and ready to play, and Skype is set so that my mum can read me The Night Before Christmas on the webcam before I go to sleep. I've concentrated so hard now that - as far as I'm concerned - it's actually snowing outside; I only have to close my eyes to know exactly how my family's Christmas tree will look, and exactly how the house will smell, and exactly what they'll be doing round about now (my dad will be stealing chocolates off the tree and my mum will be shouting at him and telling them to put them back).

This is my first Christmas away from the people I love, and I thought it would be harder: but it's not. I forgot how powerful the heart is, and how persuasive the imagination. In my mind, I'm there: I'm with my mum, tucked up in front of the telly drinking Baileys; I'm with my sister, smoking in the garden where my parents can't see us; I'm with my dad, scolding him for being late back from the pub for lunch. I'm helping my grandma with the brussel sprouts, and my grandad with the turkey. I'm covered in snow, and shaking myself off on the doorstep so I don't make a mess of the carpet. I'm there, and the small matter of a few thousand miles doesn't make a difference to me. Christmas is for the people you love, and my heart is with them, even if I'm not.

I'm not just dreaming of a White Christmas this year; I'm dreaming of a Christmas, full stop. But it's enough. The imagination is like the snow covering England at the moment, and you can do what you like with it; make what you will with it. And - this year - I'm playing in it with my family, and leaving footprints all over it.

Because, on my favourite day of the year, there's nowhere else I want to be.

Merry Christmas.