Christmas Eve is a special day for the German in me. Full of memories of waiting for the Christkind, candlelight and Christmas Carols, decorating Christmas trees, leaving out nuts to feed the Christkind, waiting for the faint sound of a bell announcing that the Christkind was there and has left the presents for us. Then the excitement of opening the presents, the heaviness of the meal thereafter, the sparkling wine induced headache and tiredness, the inner fight to get up again to go to midnight mass, the overwhelming display of robes, incense, the coming of the light in the night of darkness, so reminiscent of pagan traditions. It's also full of memories of my mother's attempt to keep each part of the evening as it was when I was wee, of retaining my childhood and me as a child, so much loathed when I turned into a teenager, so much frustration and anger, and annoyance at her annual tears of Rührung at the moment of the Bescherung, introduced by the ringing of the bell.

This year, it was so different. For the first time, I stayed in Scotland for Christmas, in my ninth year in the country. The atmopheric, magical, and boring Christmas Eve was exchanged for an altogether different experience. First family reunion at home, then friends' reunion at the pub. It was sociable, lots of alcohol went down lots of throats, there was live music in the pub, cheerfulness, fun, laughter. I loved it, yet needed some quiet space as well, so we decided to go to church. I was in for a treat. The absolute darkness and quietness of my Christmas Eve midnight mass was exchanged for a brightly lit church hall, with people chatting away, long time no see hello, how're things etc. The service was delivered by a comedian of a minister who presented The Sound of Music videoclips on a projection screen, commenting on fake technical glibs and that really we're waiting for a direct line to Bethlehem. Lots of audience participations, questions, references to soap operas and other popular culture. The first five minutes were funny, the sheer novelty and bizarreness of someone used to the ritualistic catholic mass had my eyes wide open. Then it turned to irritation. The few charols sung didn't manage to turn the atmosphere to the special nature of this night, and with horror I realised that for all my turning my back on Catholicism and institutionalised religion, with all my general wariness towards any religion, deep down, on Christmas Eve, I longed for the special experience of the light coming into darkness, the magic of candles illuminating massive spaces, and the magic of a child lying in a manger, reverred by the whole congregation, and sunk into incense and wonder, all made extra special by altar boys and all the priests and helpers dressed in their most elaborate robes.

Still, it was great being able to have a pint after the service, and to continue until oblivion amongs friends that had all come home for Christmas from all corners of the country, in pubs that were still open at 3am. Much more fun than going home after midnight mass to be forcefed the Pope's midnight mass transmitted live from Rome.