Episode 4: The Christmas You Love

In Continental Europe, Christmas means chilly air, snow‑covered rooftops, and the crunch of boots on frozen ground. It’s the smell of hot mead wine and roasted chestnuts from the market, bought after work to keep you warm and shake the stress away.

In Britain, Christmas is… complicated.

Welcome to Cherry on Top podcasts. I’m your host, Yvette, a web designer and online marketer, and today’s mini‑podcast is about Christmas. Let’s get on with it.

“So this is Christmas…”

Well, well, well, here we go again. A week before Christmas — the time that’s supposed to be peaceful and full of joy, and yet somehow always turns out to be the most stressful time of the year. Only a few days left to buy all the treasured gifts for family and loved ones — gifts that’ll be opened with fake enthusiasm, set aside, only to never be touched again.

Tis the season of increased blood pressure, of sweating bullets while frantically queueing in overheated shopping centres, all while being mercilessly bombarded by Mariah Carey insisting — yet again — that all she wants for Christmas is you.

Yes, yes. Do keep trying and stay optimistic. If you buy your loved ones everything they want, they will love you. Just like Mariah Carey.

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I’m sitting at my desk, staring out the window into the grey, rainy, foggy day in London town. Well… London suburbs, technically. The chippy across the street is frying away as usual, the off‑licence is open for business, and red double‑deckers roll past — some empty, some packed, all looking slightly miserable. There’s nothing out there to remind me of Christmas.

And yet, it’s impossible to forget I’m in Britain: the rain, the fog, the people in short sleeves or shorts, defiantly pretending it’s summer. Oh hey — there’s one in a puffer jacket and flip‑flops. Bare feet in flip‑flops! How did that become a winter thing over here?

When I close my eyes, I can still hear my late mum’s voice: “Remember, warm socks and good shoes are a must in winter. Cold always comes from the ground. Keep your feet warm, and you won’t catch anything.” Duh.

But then again, British Christmas isn’t like Continental Europe. Over THERE, Christmas means cold air, snow‑covered rooftops, and the crunch of boots on frozen ground. It’s the smell of hot mead wine and roasted chestnuts from the market, bought after work to keep you warm and shake the stress away.

On the other hand, winter in Britain is… complicated. It’s milder, wetter, and far less white. Here, Christmas means damp socks, foggy bus windows, and the eternal question: Is this drizzle, or is it rain? Will my umbrella keep me dry, or will the next gust of wind blow it away?

It’s as if the season itself needs constant reminders: the lights, the adverts, the endless loop of Mariah Carey — all shouting at you that yes, it is Christmas, indeed, even if the weather forgot to RSVP.

But behold! Behind the dry humour and polite distance, the Brits are a nation with a playful heart. At this time of the year, they all turn into a bunch of mischief‑makers in silly Christmas hats and knitted Christmas jumpers, cracking sarcastic one‑liners through their stiff upper lip with surgical precision.

“Lovely weather for ducks.”
“Bit nippy out, isn’t it?”
“At least it’s not snowing — we’d never cope.”

And that’s the thing. In central Europe, snow is part of the deal. You get it nearly every year — not always the same amount, not always at Christmas, but it’s there. You swap your summer wheels for winter wheels, you keep chains in the boot, you’re ready.

Over here? Cars only have one type of wheel — the ones for rainy days. And in the ten years I’ve lived here, it’s snowed exactly twice — and both times, you’d think the country had been invaded… by giant snowflakes.

The first time, about two or three years in, twenty centimetres dropped out of nowhere — and Britain just… stopped. Supermarkets stripped bare because suppliers couldn’t drive in snow. People stopped going to work because they couldn’t drive in snow. Nobody knew how to clear their driveways because they don’t sell snow shovels here. Umbrellas? Completely useless.

Everyone stayed at home, waiting for the Big Meltdown. Three whole days. Three days of national hibernation.

Although, looking back, it could have been that Nature was giving us a heads‑up. A preview of the life we were heading into — lockdowns, empty shelves, staying indoors. A situation so unusual nobody knew how to deal with it. Covid. But that’s for another story.

Today, we’re talking about Christmas — the season of joy, giving, and laughter. The season when families are supposed to be together, when nobody should be left alone… unless by choice, of course.

Myself, I’ve opted out of Christmas a long time ago. No — let me correct myself. I’ve opted out of the Christmas rat race. Because Christmas, really, is like a festive buffet. You walk around with a plate in your hand and pick only the things you like.

And me? I like the lights. I like the decorations. I also like peace, quiet, and fresh air. That’s why you won’t catch me chasing presents last minute on Christmas Eve.

You might, though, see me wandering Covent Garden, Regent Street, and Bond Street all by myself — soaking up the sparkle — and enjoying a mulled wine or two in Soho. Because that’s my kind of Christmas.

And you — you pick your kind of Christmas. Keep the crown, keep the jumper, keep the presents… and carry on. Merry Christmas to you.

PS: Oh yeah. If you’re in Britain, don’t forget to bring your umbrella. It’s going to rain.