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So Christmas Day ended with all the traditions packed away in the box, stored away until next year. Not the tree decorations and cards, which stay up as long as possible (although with a slight superstitious feel about Twelfth Night), but all the activity surrounding the day.
If, like me, you’ve managed a Christmas ritual almost unchanged for 66 years, you’re a) unadventurous to a staggering degree; b) a sentimental nostalgic and lucky that those around him indulge his whims; or c) too scared to find out if you would enjoy anything else.
What if we threw caution to the wind and flew to the Caribbean for a picnic on white sands? Or spend the day, in your pajamas, with a jeroboam of champagne, a tub of caviar and old movies? The world wouldn’t stop turning, that’s for sure, but my love for the Christmas tradition is such that I’m too afraid to find out.
From the pile of presents under the tree on Christmas Eve to the tangerine at the bottom of the stocking, to (my personal favourite) the silence of the London streets on Christmas morning – this is the day as I know and see it. love. But this year, for various reasons, I had to give in to a change of plans.
All of the above was still in effect, but instead of cooking a big feast at home for family and friends, we went to a restaurant, just my son, his father, and my boyfriend.
Missing were the fridge full of cheese and brandied butter, the huge brined Nigella turkey soaking in a bucket in the garden shed, the bowls of chopped and peeled carrots, parsnips, red cabbage and the peeled Christmas Eve potatoes. Instead, she was slumped on the couch watching Funny Girl and King’s College carols on TV.
All morning on Christmas Day, I had dramatic pangs of muscle memory that reminded me of all the usual rituals I wasn’t doing. For example, my brain was telling me it was time to heat the oven for the turkey, remember to put in water for the pudding, or make a crucial decision about whether maple syrup or honey would be better for the parsnips.
Our kitchen was a strange land on a Christmas morning with nothing to do but make a cup of coffee. I kept waiting for the doorbell to ring and new guests to enter the house in a noisy mass.
I have managed a Christmas ritual almost unchanged for 66 years, but this year, for various reasons, I had to give in to a change of plan, writes ALEXANDRA SHULMAN
Instead of cooking a big feast at home for family and friends, we went to a restaurant (file photo)
In the end I admit that going out was nice.
My son said it was wonderfully calm – read what you want. We had a table in The Park restaurant where we could watch the crowds gather in Kensington Gardens for their evening stroll. There were crackers on the table and the menu allowed us to ditch tradition if we wanted and indulge in pasta, hot dogs, clam chowder and ice cream.
We chatted with other families who, like me, felt they had to offer an explanation for their presence. It was as if everyone thought it was a bit wrong to do so.
And then we returned to a house without dishes, but with gifts to explore.
But I’ll tell you one thing. It just wasn’t what I call Christmas.
Purple reigns (but not in a good way)
Like many people, I did some Boxing Day shopping from my bed. Not that he really needed anything. I’ve been spoiled with gifts, but that doesn’t mean I’d pass up the chance to buy a discounted Nutribullet and a pair of purple John Lewis joggers that suddenly seemed like a must-have.
They are completely unnecessary but will match the purple.
Knitted hat that my ex-husband gave me and I will look like the walking illustration of the most irritating poem in the English language: ‘When I am old, I will wear purple.’
Brands that endorse my seal of approval
Cadbury losing its Royal Warrant is great news. But the list of companies that made the grade is a comforting reminder of an unchanging Britain: Kent bristle hairbrushes, Bendicks chocolate, Peter Reed bed linen, Weetabix dry cleaners and Jeeves of Belgravia.
Reading the list is like lying in a hot bath, but think about those that have lost their prized status, such as Boots, Schweppes, Elizabeth Arden and, surprisingly, Angostura bitters. Are they really making G&T in Sandringham without Angostura?
In the same spirit, I have put together my own list of arrest warrants ‘by appointment to the House of Shulman’. Rose lemon juice cordial (no other brand is acceptable), Badedas Original body wash, Brillo sanitary pads, Smythson stationery, M&S and Fortnum & Mason would be strong candidates.
They’re almost all brands, but if Queen Camilla can include her loyal hairdresser Jo Hansford on the royal list, I’d like to add my own, George Northwood. You would look really stylish with a coat of arms on your t-shirt.
A shameless gift… or sexual harassment?
When I was single and working at a newspaper, a colleague and friend gave me a pair of red lace panties as a Christmas gift.
I had never had a pair of red lace panties before and I didn’t really like them, but I took the gift in stride, so to speak. For weeks, the companions jovially compared the gift to the one the man had given his girlfriend: a saucepan.
Today, would that register as unwanted sexual behavior?
Beyoncé and her secret feminine power
Beyonce performs with her daughter Blue Ivy at a football game between the Baltimore Ravens and the Houston Texans on Christmas Day.
Beyonce and her young daughter Blue Ivy performed together at a football game in Houston on Christmas Day. Both wore the country’s typical clothing: white stetson hats, sequins and chaps.
Blue Ivy must be the only 12-year-old girl in the world willing to dance with her mother, dressed in the same clothes. Most girls her age would do anything to escape the mortification of looking like their mother, let alone dance with her.
What is Beyoncé’s secret?