Upfront

‘LOOK AROUND,” says the woman standing under the twinkling chandeliers on Grafton Street. “The world hasn’t ended. All these people are still here, still living their lives.”

The woman she is addressing doesn’t look convinced. She shakes her head, as though the swelling crowd swinging their shopping bags is an illusion that will melt away at midnight like a fairytale horse and carriage. And perhaps it will.

Later, the woman behind me in the queue at the supermarket tells the man on the check-out that she isn’t sleeping properly. “Because of that crowd from Europe,” she explains. “You wouldn’t know what they are going to do to us.” “It’s out of our control so I am not going to worry,” he replies, and she nods, it seems, for politeness sake, two people with divergent bail-out philosophies passing the time of day.

I am wandering around town alone, free to eavesdrop on bailout chatter to my heart’s content. My boyfriend has taken our two children up North so that I can get some rest and sort out a few long-finger jobs in the house. Getting them out the door in the morning is a frantic whirl of bags, missing shoes and shrieks.

Eventually the door slams. A strange quiet descends. Suddenly the excitement about the prospect of 24 hours home alone is too much to bear. I lie on the bed and have a little cry. Do I miss them already? Not quite. The subtext of the sobs is “they will be back in 24 hours and I’ve too much to do, it’s not enough time, I need a week, 24 hours is not enough”. I fill the deepest, hottest bath, plunge into it and then back into bed, where I sleep for three hours.

Later, I analyse my little episode and I decide it’s one part exhaustion, two parts a side effect of the lies, incompetence and ignorance masquerading as leadership in this country. On waking I decide to go into town to start my Christmas shopping. It’s usually an orgy of impulse buys but it will be infinitely more meaningful this year because what I am planning instead is a sort of Happy DIY IMF Christmas.

The recipient of the first present I decide upon is a bling-oriented friend I’ll call Magpie. (Stop reading, Magpie.) Five large pink beads sparkling seductively from a long piece of organza ribbon. A few years ago I’d have spotted the like of this necklace in a boutique and happily shelled out €30-odd, but I made this one myself and it cost less than €5. Had I been stingier with the ribbon I could have made it for under €4. The IMF would be proud if they weren’t too busy counting zeros to care about thrifty Christmas presents.

I don’t think I’ve enjoyed shopping for a present more than I did this one. I loved the discussion with the women in Crown Jewels about whether the pink beads would work better on a chain or a ribbon. A ribbon, it was decided, so I bought the beads for 50 cent each, and ambled across to the Powerscourt Centre, where the sales assistant in A Rubanesque recommended organza and measured out a metre and a half. Then she showed this craft half-wit (craft twit?) how to thread the beads with a darning needle. Job done.

All my presents this year will be stuck together, baked, jarred, painted, printed, created, curated, repurposed, recycled, found. It feels right. Something positive we can do towards shaping and adapting to this new reality, this ending that is also a beginning.

I was struck by something national hero Colm O’Gorman tweeted earlier this week: “Time for each and every one of us to stop looking for leadership where it will not be found and start showing it ourselves.” How to show it though? Does spending more time and thought than money this Christmas count? What about collecting all your family’s recipes and putting them together in a notebook to be followed faithfully by your brothers and sisters and their children for years to come? Or baking a massive batch of your famous chocolate cookies and boxing them up to be enjoyed by friends?

A few years ago, someone gave me a photo they had taken of my boyfriend and I in India after a 5am yoga class. I’ve probably got more out of that present than any other I’ve received in my life. I look at it and smile almost every day, remembering the moment it was taken. Then there are the two tiny cardigans my sister knitted for my babies before they were born, which had the effect of allowing me to imagine them as real live beings for the first time. The memory of her thoughtfulness two years later still fills my heart with joy.

This magazine is chock-full of inspiration for a frugal and fun and creative Christmas season. From a “Half Full” wall chart to be filled with only your happiest events of the coming year, to a plain white mug rendered a work of art with the addition of the Irish-invented wonderstuff called Sugru.

Things are bad, but the woman on Grafton Street was right. The world hasn’t ended. It is being re-imagined. In my house it’s happening one home-made Christmas present at a time. roisin@irishtimes.com