'Tis the season to be mournful

I function differently in December. So far today I have cried at a children's nativity ON DAYTIME TV, wept on 3 separate occasions at adverts and I just broke down completely, kneeling on the kitchen floor listening to the epically brilliant White Wine in the Sun by Tim Minchin. As I say: tough month, December.
I think all this wailing and snot is a result of a couple of things; firstly, nine years ago my Dad died, 8 weeks after finding out -at Christmas- that he had cancer. He didn't tell us till after Christmas. He was a bit weepy that holiday; maybe that, and the fact that he'd lost the use of one arm should have been a bit of a giveaway, but our family is famed for its outstanding ability to gaze interestedly at the ceiling, whistling nonchalantly and ignoring any elephants that may have sidled into the room. So maybe I keep experiencing tiny moments of grief for Christmases past, before people started dying all over the place.
Secondly, I have children. Anyone who has children will confirm that from the very moment they spring forth into the world, you, as parent become instantly susceptible to all adverts for any kind of charity and are unable to watch the news without woefully shaking your head and wondering aloud why you have brought a child into such a Heartless World and what will become of us all? When I was blessed with children I became an unlovely blend of vacuity, angst and irritability, mitigated by occasional moments of (maudlin) joy. And gin.
As I write this a lone boy soprano is singing Once in Royal David's City (on the radio- I don't keep a choirboy to hand in the corner of the room) and I am once again perilously close to flinging myself on the sofa and soaking the cushions with my tears. If I hear a brass band playing Christmas carols, no matter how iffy the tuning I am sent into paroxysms of weeping; I had a very embarrassing episode listening to the Salvation Army band outside BHS once.
But it's not just Christmas, although that does to seem to have a particular effect- it seems to be any communal celebration- watching Morris dancers with my children on May Day, church services; views of the countryside as seen from a train window; watching strangers just enjoying life: they all have the capacity to set me off.

So I have decided to see this rather exasperating phenomenon as a strength. A super power. After all, nobody wants to sit next to the woman weeping quietly on the train, overcome by the beauty of the TREES. Unpleasant confrontation with rude shop assistant? Just watch the confounded look on their face as I burst into noisy sobs. Yes, alright, maybe it doesn't achieve anything exactly, but as an avoidance tactic, it's pretty unbeatable. You could possibly embellish it by fainting in an obvious manner, but that might hurt and anyway I'm straying from the point.

The point is, I cry a lot these days so I shall just make sure that a) I have a
large supply of tissues about my person at all times and 2) that I am wearing a decent waterproof mascara, in order to avoid that Whatever Happened to Baby Jane look that I seem to have unwittingly adopted. I've got a suspicion that it's only going to get worse, so I might as well wallow in it. I'm off to watch E.T. with a large gin; Happy Christmas