Imagine being able to choose who you want to sit under the Christmas tree with, who you want to share presents with, and who you want to fall into a goose roast coma with at the dinner table. That is, if you don’t fall out before dessert because you got a bit confused about who to invite.

Let’s start with the little ones, your children, if you have any, who are still or already of Christmas age. Did you choose these children when you were still with the other parent, didn’t you? Did you choose them carefully, taking into account things like the sound of their voice, their sex, the smell of their hair, their intelligence quotient, the number of freckles? Or were these children assigned to you by chance? You may find similarities with yourself, but there are also things about them that are incomprehensible and alien to you? The results of the lottery called ‘family planning’ are now sitting at your table, arguing about who gets to play the new games console, who gets the leftover dessert, or simply out of habit.

And the others at the table, in-laws, your own parents, grandparents, siblings, uncles and aunts, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, whoever else is eating? Are you happy with your choice? Is this exactly the mother you wanted? Is it not? Oh, how should she have been? Preferably not there? Yes, I understand. But then you wouldn’t be there either, or you would be someone else. Only someone like you could have come from that mother, and vice versa. Right? Hm. How do we know what our mother should have been like? Because of all the things we needed but didn’t get from her? Yes, where else? Okay, so compared to Mum, Santa Claus has a holiday job.

But never mind, it’s Christmas, so do yourself a favour: get some reasonably soundproof headphones and put on some music, whether it’s Bach, Rammstein or Helene Fischer, whatever makes you feel good. Suddenly the Christmas family scene becomes a silent film with a soundtrack of your choice. Now imagine that you met all these people on your last trip to the supermarket. You don’t know who they are, what their names are, what’s going on in their lives, where they come from. You know nothing, you just look.

The little girl over there is sulking. She’s sitting in front of a mountain of freshly unwrapped presents. You’ve seen that pout before, but where? The old man over there is telling stories. He seems to be thrilling an ecstatic, if imaginary, audience. The woman next to you smells good – how do you know? She is eating like there is no tomorrow, occasionally offering everyone a taste. The couple on the sofa in the background are silent. You can clearly see that they are engaged in a lively conversation and look confident, just like in an insurance ad.

Now you think the whole scene is part of a popular parlour game. It’s called ‘Christmas with Strangers’. Just before the New Year, it’s the ultimate blockbuster in this country. You let chance assign you a family as your dinner companions, provide food and presents, and off you go. The rules of the game are simple, there are three tasks: 1. Survive three days, physically unharmed if possible. 2. Ask the impossible of your dinner companions and yourself. 3. Enjoy the happiness of your family (even if your family is absent, deceased or otherwise unavailable). Roles come naturally, sometimes they change: father, mother, child, brother, sister, uncle, aunt, grandfather, grandmother – who knows, they’re all strangers.

There are little girls who play mother at the Christmas table, their eyes everywhere. They are daddy’s favourites. There are grey-haired gentlemen who have to leave soon because the boys are waiting. There are teenage knights who make their mums so happy it’s a joy to watch. Just the way Mummy thinks a real man should be. There are women who think their little son is their father and are afraid of the poor little thing, just as they were back then. Occasionally, men join in and mistake their wives for their mothers, but that’s more the exception than the rule.

With Bach, Rammstein or Helene Fischer playing in your head, pour yourself another glass of wine and watch the game of mistaken identity under the Christmas tree. Some of the players take their roles so seriously that they fail at the very first task: surviving three days physically unharmed. They seem to forget that their participation is random, that it just happened to them. No one is to blame. It could have happened to someone else, but it didn’t (that’s the joke of ‘chance’). I’m not sure that ‘chance’ is the best word for the person casting ‘Christmas Among Strangers’. Others say ‘life’ or ‘God’ or ‘fate’ – well, something or someone who doesn’t care much about appearances.

As you sit there looking at all the strangers in your living room, you might think: ‘Oh, it would be great if that old man over there didn’t have to pretend to be my grandfather. Then I could listen to him. Or that girl with the pouty mouth, she wouldn’t have to pretend to be my daughter. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about her. And the woman next to me, she wouldn’t have to look like we’ve been married a long time. She probably thinks that’s what old married couples look like. Without that look, I could just kiss her on the neck and spill some red wine on her.

You can take off your headphones now. They really are strangers doing what they imagine Christmas to be like under the Christmas tree. The only person you know reasonably well is yourself, and you didn’t even choose yourself. You didn’t audition, you were assigned. Just like everyone else. The roles in ‘Christmas with Strangers’ are just roles, nothing more, whether they are called ‘Grandpa’, ‘Mum’, ‘Daughter’ or ‘Grandson’. No one has chosen them, no one can give them up of their own accord, unless… but no, that sounds too absurd.

What, you want to know how to release someone from their role? It’s very simple: you breathe out. You breathe in. Then you say: ‘I see you. I don’t know you. I don’t know myself. Then a transformation takes place. If all goes well, a person you don’t know appears before your eyes. Mum’ becomes an unknown woman. Perhaps she has a beautiful smile. Grandpa’ becomes a strange, possibly interesting old man, and the ‘daughter’ with the pouty mouth becomes a little girl who is tired. Dad’, ‘son’, ‘husband’ become strangers, unknown travellers to whom you first offer more wine because it’s Christmas.

Put your headphones back on, maybe you’d like some fresh air. Make yourself comfortable; it’s not your fault. You had no choice, none of your guests did. Christmas is always ‘Christmas among strangers’ and everyone plays along. The three tasks of the game are hopelessly contradictory. Nothing can be done unless it becomes clear to those involved that this is a game, a dance with assigned roles. Nothing else. Then they will dissolve of their own accord. Who is behind the game? No idea. The secret of Christmas? Yourself? Not Santa Claus, but he’s playing the role of a lifetime, isn’t he? Happy holidays!