They say that divorce is the most stressful event that can happen to a person, but I argue the Coombes Family annual Christmas photo delivers the same tension, anxiety and hassle, but in a super potent 20 minute dose.
Usually the event takes place at around 4pm, after Christmas lunch has been consumed. At this stage my siblings and I have retreated into our rooms for a short reprieve, like hermit crabs retracting into their shells, wearied from people tapping at the glass.
Alas, the solitude is short lived. Soon my father’s call echoes through the house, “family photo time!”.
I am filled with sudden dread. Is this how families felt in WW2 when bomb sirens went off? He may as well have yelled “the dog’s eaten a grenade and is hiding somewhere in the house”.
With a silent prayer that the photo won’t take long, the great people muster begins. All of my siblings, who are now wise to the fact that whoever arrives first will be standing the longest, wait in their respective rooms until the shouts for them become less jolly, more ‘you’re out of the will’. Meanwhile my mother and I struggle to round up the animals. Mittens cannot be found anywhere. Smart bloody cat. The dog, however, is easily found and my sister Tamara emerges from her room with the other cat, Cinders. Cinders is understandably irate at being dragged from a pleasant turkey-fuelled snooze, so he alternates between struggling in Tamara’s arms to swiping at the dog.
He is not the only one externalising his frustration at the photo.
Snippy remarks are now being exchanged and (despite everyone being assembled) the camera, tripod and timer are long from being ready. It takes a while, but eventually everything is assembled and the camera’s button is pressed. Final remarks are exchanged as my Father scrambles to get into the shot before the timer runs out. And then, for the most fleeting second, the shutter swings open and we look like a perfectly nice, placid family.
It’s an illusion, but I wouldn’t change a thing.
