We don't do christmas in this household. Maybe because we couldn't be bothered, maybe because we don't get our act together or maybe because we had our fair share and more of it by now, after all, we are both over 55. Maybe there are secret traumas of rejection and loss (seriously? No.) or maybe we are unconsciously rebelling against consumerist capitalist society (yawn).
We don't do presents, either, with the exception of children, of course. We do donations, we rub it in, we are ever so politically correct on our very high horses.
It is the most humbling experience.
Today, we received a letter from a member of small co-operative in rural Uganda which - together with many others - we have been supporting for several years. He tells us about the detrimental effects of land grabbing and bio fuel, about imported chicken from subsidised European farms crippling the local producers. He also sends us pictures of the solar panels and the solar cookers they have been installing and the tree seedlings they have been planting to reduce their carbon footprint.
We look at each other across the table in our cosy kitchen with all the gadgets, our two steaming mugs of coffee with hot milk fresh out of the microwave, organic whole wheat bread, French cheese, dried tomatoes from Italy, Spanish olives, the fat slab of whole almond milk chocolate S sent all the way from NZ. What is going on. Tell me.