I work myself into a panic over Chanukah... how to come up with brilliant presents eight times over?

I find myself in a familiar gifting pickle. You see, it’s currently Chanukah — a lovely eight-day Jewish festival that takes place around this time of year. It’s a magical, comfy celebration involving family and candles and doughnuts and fried potato pancakes … the sheer quantity of saturated fat involved is enough to constitute a homophobic micro-aggression.    

Because of its proximity to Christmas, it’s also the time when Jewish people give gifts, and they’ll often do this on all eight nights. It’s a lot — just imagine more than a week of Christmas Days, all jingling one after another. Every year, I work myself into the same panic: how can I possibly give people something heartfelt and brilliant eight times over?

In truth, my best ever Chanukah was when my mum abandoned the whole “eight nights” thing and rolled it all up to one magnificent, life-changing gift: an almost perfect rescue dog called Timmy. He had all the breath-taking assurance of an A-list megastar who had unexpectedly found himself in suburban North London. Timmy would walk himself and occasionally amble down to my school to bark a quick hello. He also took immediately against my mother’s décor — peeing on the carpets and tearing down the net curtains. In many ways, he was my spirit animal. I suppose I should stop worrying and try and be as fabulously confident as Timmy was … and if any my gifts brings a fraction of the joy he brought me, then I’ll have done okay. Happy Chanukah to all!

I like to avoid emotional political arguments wherever possible — my desire to be liked always trumps any wish to engage. It’s a big reason why I don’t talk about Brexit. However, a few months back, I found there was something specific concerning me.  I realised I could face actual queuing at European airports. Arriving in Ibiza and waiting two hours to get into the sunshine would cause incalculable injury to my personal sense of majesty.  

So, with this nightmare looming, I began the process of claiming a Polish passport; it’s always been something I could get through my late grandfather.  But what began as an idle fancy quickly changed... I began to think properly about what it actually meant for me and what it might mean for him. Much like my late grandpa, I adore being British beyond words… I’m also not blind to the uglier aspects of Polish history and politics. But, like many of the people who lived through the Holocaust, my grandfather always wanted to feel that he could get away if he had to. It’s not uncommon.  There are stories of elderly survivors living in America who always kept their cars filled with petrol… they kept them in case they needed to make a quick getaway. With my Polish passport, I know I’ll always have escape options. The rational part of me knows I’ll never want or need to use it for that but — on some level — I’ll sleep a little easier knowing I can.

Ask any of my friends and they’ll agree that I have a pretty intense addiction to my mobile phone. I know it’s a problem and I’m constantly trying to get better. It’s why I love the places that enforce my attention. One of the best is the cinema… the lights dim and immediately my thumbs relax. As my phone switches off, I feel liberated. So, I was distraught to hear that Warner Brothers are going to start streaming movies at home at the same time as they put them on the big screen. Anything that puts cinema at risk worries me… it’s one of my few breaks from the little rectangular tyrant that lives in my pocket.  I hope it doesn’t catch on.