I am a mince pie aficionado. They are everything you want in a late night snack: sweet, juicy, and about your pleasure. But that’s pretty much where my love for Christmas ends. The holidays have never been a big deal to me. I’m not British, not Christian, and live abroad, all of which probably explain why. Britain does Christmas with possibly a bit too much enthusiasm; athough I’ve celebrated, and my Christmases have always been cute, they’ve been fairly lacklustre in comparison. Plus, I’m a cynic - I went to our Christmas slack dressed as consumerism. That said, it would be untrue for me to claim that the prospect of spending the entire holiday in Cambridge with few people for company wasn’t slightly terrifying.

On Christmas Eve, I attended midnight mass at St Benet’s church. It was a lovely insight into a bit of Cambridge unrelated to the university, and though it dragged on after the half an hour mark, I didn’t have anyone to resent for forcing me to be someplace I didn’t want to be. I’d chosen to go and that autonomy in itself, which isn’t something I’ve usually had over Christmas, made me glad I went. That night, I slept at a house off Mill Road, where I’d been bunny-sitting. Being someplace with a front door and a full-sized fridge was a glorious break from the bubble. Better yet, I was alone; I could perform every show tune ever and wasn’t forced to spend time with family I barely know, with whom the only conversation is ‘what does HSPS stand for again?’

The next morning would have usually been spent groggily opening presents, unconvinced about the sham that is ‘holiday spirit’, but this year I went for a walk instead, only to come back and fall asleep, waking up after the sun had gone down, unintentionally missing the majority of the day and the pot luck at St. Edmund’s I’d planned to attend. To make up for it, I cooked a slightly more elaborate meal than usual in some faint personal acknowledgement of Christmas, but then happily carried on with my daily fuckery, as I had done every day since the start of the holidays.

That night a friend came over unannounced and we mulled some wine and cider and watched Unfriended, a solid two-star horror film. I loved the flippancy of it all, the derision with which we treated the entire tradition of Christmas. We made it our own by doing exactly what we wanted to do and that was what made it special, in my eyes. I realised I didn’t need a celebration to be able to celebrate. That was even truer the next day when I went down to a different friend’s in London to sample bubble and squeak for the first time. It was perfect: none of the hullaballoo, but all of the good food.

Ultimately, this holiday showed me that it’s a liberty to be able to be on your own, and truly happy. I know I spent a lot of time as a fresher trying to make as many friends as I could because I thought that was the done thing, and to prove to myself that I was capable of it. After a year at university I think my outlook has changed completely. I can now acknowledge that I have really good friends, and that sometimes more important than making new ones is actually just spending time with yourself. Having loneliness as a choice, rather than as something forced upon you, is a luxury, but I think if you are lucky enough to be in that position, it is so freeing to make the most of it. My Christmas was exactly my own, and I loved every bit.