Christmas Again

Picture shows a typical dining table scene from previous years.

Alcohol and pyrotechnics

 As this is my private blog, and my husband will never see it, I share here my thoughts on our 45th Christmas since we became a couple.

We spent the day with our elder daughter. She cooked a roast chicken, (no turkey, stuffing, bread sauce, cranberry sauce, sprouts or stewed apple, all of which used to accompany the main course in our Yorkshire dominated household from days gone by).

I have never liked turkey, in fact I grew to loath it over the years. We did give up with the stewed apple quite early on, it was a relic of hub's grandmother, and the bread sauce was eased out too over the years. To be replaced, unfortunately, with celeriac and mashed potato mix (with garlic infused milk).

This year, at our daughter's, no alcohol was served at all with the meal or at any other time of the day.  Our daughter did not serve a Christmas pudding, or any other pudding other than one chocolate each after the meal.

This was the happiest Christmas I can ever remember in all my 70 years.

No one sulked in the afternoon, no one upset anyone else, and there were no arguments about anything.

I have put up with my husband's total domination of Christmas for the last 38 years.  First we had to go to his mother's, until his grandmother died, at 96.  Then his parents and sister came to us for the next 33 years. After his mother died, at 97, we stopped hosting and have spent the last two years at our daughters'. Our younger daughter hosted last year and did a roast ham buffet (well done, don't be a slave to tradition, I said). This year our elder hosted but not the whole family party of nine or ten adults, just husband and me.  

Again, a wonderful refreshing break with the obsessive tradition that EVERYONE must all be crammed in together for the 25th of December. Which, as I said, I put up with for 38 years, 33 of them hosting at our house. 

I was never asked, what would you like to do this year, it's your turn to choose. When his parents etc came, they always came for a full week, until I put my foot down and said they had to go after three days.  Every year we had an argument about whether they could stay for three days or four.

Alcohol was served every day with the main meal, which after a very long time (too long) I realised was making me feel tired, irritable and bad-tempered.  

On the big day itself, my husband always insisted on serving champagne at the start, on empty stomachs, and then opening a second bottle at the table as well as serving wine. There were arguments every year about the second bottle of champagne.

Every year, my husband made a huge performance of getting the camping gas stove out of the garage to heat brandy at the table and pour it over the Christmas pudding then setting fire to it. Everyone dutifully oohed and aahed and clapped.  He thought this was the star piece of the whole show.

This year he was prevented from showing off in this way because there was no Christmas pudding in our daughter's house. (Had there been one, he would have tried to get his own way, even just heating the brandy up in a saucepan on the hob).

Oh my god, how has our marriage lasted this long.  No wonder the solicitors' offices are full of people seeking a divorce in January.

Wonderful daughters, doing it their way (our younger just decided they wanted to have Christmas day in their own home this year, and would not be travelling anywhere).

Thank you God, for this lovely Christmas.

Rules for Surviving Christmas updated (yet AGAIN)

I have written before on my (constantly lengthening) list of rules for surviving Christmas. Since writing that post in 2015, the rule about cutting everything you say by 50% was amended to 80%.  I would now further amend it to 95%.  That is in part attributable to the Covid pandemic, which means that most of what I say would amount to reminding hubby of handwashing, taking lateral flow tests before meeting people, not going into the houses of neighbours with school-age children. I've been criticised extensively for trying to get these messages across, right back to March 2020, and then been proved right a few days later when the advice becomes standard.  This morning, I waved him off as he went to visit his 97-year-old mother (who is in the terminal stages of cancer), and suggested that he should take a lateral flow test before entering her premises.  He hummed, and said he might.  I said not a single word more. There really is no point, he will do what he wants.  His subtext is that she's going to die soon anyway.  My point (made on previous occasions), is that Co-vid is a horrible way to go, and she would have to die in hospital without any visitors.  As things stand she is set to live out her last days in her own very warm and comfortable retirement flat, with carers, and all her pictures and possessions around her, and all her family able to visit at any time. I've said all this.  I can't go on with this battle.

So the new 95% rule, (which may well increase again to 99%)  - this will involve only speaking on factual matters to do with cooking, or to agree with what the other person has just said. Yes, the latter point is technically dishonest, but what has being honest ever done for anyone except gain them a reputation for being tactless.

Avoiding all alcohol remains the most important item of all, even more important than the 95% rule.

I have one new rule for 2021.  

Get up earlier. This morning I got up at 5.30 am, to see my husband off at 7.30 am, having checked his list, checked again that he has his phone, three chargers, his wallet, the bags of stuff he needs to take. Everything went smoothly, I remained calm, observed the 95% rule, and he forgot nothing (as far as I am able to make out).

Tomorrow I plan to get up at 4.30 am in order to drive to daughter's house, hopefully avoiding too much traffic on the M25.

I will be going to bed at 8.30 pm tonight.  This is no hardship.

I started getting up at dawn during the autumn of 2020, in order to see the sunrise. It got to the point, as spring 2021 advanced, and the pandemic showed no sign of lessening, that I was going to bed at 8.30 and rising at 4.30 to see the sun earlier and earlier.

I do see that you have to be old and retired to do this (no pressing evening engagements, no TV programmes demanding to be watched, no household tasks which have to be put off until after the working day is done). You have to be basically self-sufficient in terms of entertainment, (came in very handy during the lockdowns). You have to be able to survive on six hours sleep if necessary: (when the small hours tick round, you wake, start worrying, and never go back to sleep).  But all in all I strongly recommend this as a strategy.

Old English Wisdom

 

 Courtesy of "Clerk of Oxford" :

Number 19

Ne deah eall soþ asæd ne eall sar ætwiten.

It does no good to tell all truths or blame all wrongs.

I have been leaning very heavily on this Old English Wisdom in the last two months. First there was a cataclysmic row with my husband.  The easement of lockdown has certainly released devils into the air which were suppressed during the months of literal containment.  I overheard him telling his mother on the phone (she is very deaf, so he was shouting), that I was a nightmare and he finds it expedient to tell lies (I already knew this), by saying the opposite of what he means in order to get his own way, because in his view, I just say no to be awkward.   There were other things.  I initially told hub that I had heard everything, and was really upset, but I have not brought this up again, and have not mentioned any of it to mother-in-law. 

Secondly, his mother (nearly 97) came to stay for a week.  I said nothing untoward for the whole week, despite some provocation.  We hosted two Christmas-size family gatherings during the ten day period of her stay. As I have mentioned before, Hub's determination to outdo himself in terms of all-day fancy cooking marathons can be quite taxing.   The washing-up went on for hours.

Sister-in-law (70), caused problems by eating lunch elsewhere while we were waiting for her and her partner to arrive for the big meal.  They finally arrived two and a half hours late.  I had  removed their places from the table, but they sat down anyway at the empty places, looking expectant, and ate their full portions.  I am particularly pleased that I forced a cheerful smile and said it was no problem.

On the final day, after this big meal, I tripped over the cable for my laptop, and sprained my foot badly.  It still hurts, two and a half weeks later.  I did not blame the fact that I was tired and distracted, as I had been on my feet nearly all day laying tables, helping serve, washing up.  I blamed no-body, but sat down with my foot elevated listening to the guests, (notably sister-in-law) prowling about the premises wondering aloud whether there would be any further food offerings, and  mentioning tea and toast (it was about 7 pm by this time).

I remained seated, and when these ruminations became louder and more insistent, I announced that I had hurt my foot and was retiring to bed to rest it in an elevated position.  In bed is literally the only place where I can guarantee rest.  I heard hubby sorting out the tea and toast, and everyone finally left about 8.30 pm.

I have not mentioned any of this since to hubby or any family member, merely coasted on regardless.  I would have liked to be thanked, by hubby for being so welcoming to his mother (we had to install a stair-gate to stop her falling down the stairs, and a commode for the guest room). 

I would have liked to have my patience and hard work acknowledged (the laundry for all the guests took three days in all).  I would have liked just some recognition that this enterprise took a week to prepare for.  Lockdown had meant that no-one had been in the house for eighteen months, and heaps of books, papers, and lockdown hoarding -(piles of dry goods, toilet rolls and detergents) - had to be cleared away in advance. This was one of the reasons I tripped, because re-arranging the furniture around my desk is needed to accommodate the nine people round the dining room table. The picture above shows some of the results of my tidying efforts.  Following the ten day visit, it took another half week to clear away and put the house back to how it is normally (obviously not  the piles of books and papers).  

However I have said nothing, and cast no blame.  Due to painful foot, I have not been able to seek my usual solace out walking in the neighbouring fields, which is normally my happy place.

However, I think it was definitely all worth it,  as both Mother-in-law and elder daughter said that that it was like staying in a hotel.  Elder daughter's husband (quite a picky eater), said on eating hub's fruit flambe pudding, that hub had certainly surpassed himself there. 

It remains to be seen whether I can maintain this Anglo-Saxon silence through the forthcoming repetition  of all the above at Christmas, and on into next year.

Boxing Day Review.

One of the good things about keeping a blog is that it is quite literally a form of diary.  No-one I know keeps a diary any more, and nor do I.  It is therefore helpful to be able to look back over my records of my feelings on previous Christmases, and compare how I have managed this year.

Last year I had already upset lots of people, and all by Boxing Day morning.  Looking back over yesterday, I am proud to record that I only upset one person, my elder daughter.

 Last year, it was the younger one who appeared to behave selfishly.  This year the older.

 I kept stoom all through the afternoon when she sat reading a book in the sitting room surrounded by the other eight people present, all of whom were amicably keeping conversations going.  She also yawned conspicuously several times, including during the big meal. It wasn't until the last three guests had finally departed, at 9.30 pm, that I lost it.  I was desperate for some peace and quiet and to switch off.  She started wrapping presents and writing cards at 9.45 pm on Christmas Day.  I think and hope we will get over me snapping at her and in any case, when I look back on last year, I have done well.

So now we have just one more big meal to get through, and then farewells tomorrow, and it will all be over for another year. 

100 Good Things About Growing Old - Number 24 - I FIRMLY don't want any tat. Rather have nothing than tat.

I've written before about the trials and tribulations of Christmas.

The tat, in particular, such as this item received a couple of years back.

I've asked my daughter to buy me something from a charity shop this year.  This simple action has made me feel so much better.

This morning we bought some items in Oxfam, for the tree.  Feels like a step in the right direction.

Feeling Spiky and a Little Frosty

Just returned from the hospital, where skin consultant informed me that removal of my mole was "Urgent" and he would schedule an operation ASAP.

On the bright side, looking at a table of incidence of cancer worldwide, published yesterday in The Times, skin cancer statistically is the lowest-appearing form of cancer for men.  In women, incidence is so statistically insignificant, it does not appear at all on the graph.

Just got to keep plugging on, and counting my blessings.

A Post Festive Analysis

 

Here are some things I DIDN'T say

• That dog is completely untrained

• You are a completely selfish  *****

• Don't keep going on about how the beef is overcooked

• I am never doing Christmas again

• I want to spend Christmas alone next year

• The dog is a nervous wreck because it gets no consistency in the reactions to its whining and pawing

• I want a divorce

So that was quite an achievement.


*******************


I met a complete stranger out on a walk on Boxing Day, and she burst into tears following our ritual greeting "Did you have a nice Christmas?"

We hugged.

After New Year's Eve, I told my husband that I am never going to do a New Year's Eve dinner party with the neighbours again, neither at theirs, (the next two years) or at ours (which would next be in 2019). 

Hubby has just read his Ladybird book.  Last year I gave him the Ladybird Book of the Shed.  This year I gave him the Ladybird book of Boxing Day.  He grudgingly admitted that it had been slightly amusing in places. 

Fortunately there is football on almost all the time over the festive period.

And it's only Boxing Day Morning

I've already upset my younger daughter's partner,  my older daughter, my husband, and my brother.  Also I snapped at my sister-in-law.  Last year and the year before, my strategy of keeping off the alcohol worked very well.  This year even that is not enough.

100 Good Things About Growing Old (Part 1) Winter Aspects.

It's a marker.  After years of saying, "forty is the new thirty", and then "fifty is the new thirty", followed by "sixty is the new forty", one can no longer put it off any longer - the realisation that one is actually old.  It's the physical signs that one can't ignore - the knees which hurt, the not being able to read anything at all without a pair of reading glasses, the having to ask people to repeat what they just said. 

However, there are many upsides.   After the introversion, the looking back at history and the prevailing gloom of my thinking since June 24th, I have turned a corner.  I am now going to focus on the positive.

One hundred good things about growing old - I'm starting today with seasonal aspects.

1. Turning the heating up to 21.5 degrees no longer seems like an indulgence, but a necessity.
2. I don't feel guilty about writing very little (or nothing) in Christmas cards to people I seldom see.
3. I don't feel guilty about letting people "slip off the list" of Christmas cards if we haven't met for more than 30 years.
4. I don't feel aggrieved if a sick child (now aged 29) keeps me occupied for a week.  Instead I feel grateful that she's under my roof and control, not out walking their dog or going to "gigs" whilst suffering from flu.
5. I don't feel sad and heartbroken when said child leaves my premises after staying a week.  Instead I feel grateful to have my own time and sofa and footstool back.
6. I take it as a badge of honour, instead of an insult, when said child tells me that the old "weird" couple on Gogglebox are the ones her dad and I have most in common with.
7. It's easy to walk straight past the dresses, handbags and shoes in John Lewis without a second glance.
8. Instead of drinking up that glass of wine, and then having another, the first thing I do is mentally step back, think, "What will I feel like in ten minutes' time, and what might I say which will cause terrible upset?" and refuse.
9. Instead of worrying about what people will think of me if I decline an invitation I really dread, I simply apologise in simple terms and move on.
10. On meeting people I've known for years while out doing Christmas shopping, I shut up after "How are you?" instead of going on to ask about everything they've done in the twenty or so years since I last spoke to them.

More soon.

The Aftermath

So, it's over at last.  We've taken down the tree, put the decorations back in the loft, and emptied the chip pan.

We only had, what was it, three arguments during this morning's procedures.  And we've agreed on proposals for re-decorating upstairs in the coming months.  As you can see below, this bedroom, decorated in primary colours to our younger daughter's specification when she was eight (she's now 28) needs to be first on the list.

After they'd gone


I've cleaned the house three times, changed the beds, and we have hosted four large, festive meals totalling 33 people.

There was one major incident when our younger daughter told our elder that she "Hates Mum", provoking elder to give back her present and declare that she did not want to have anything more to do with her sister.  I think we've managed to overcome this.

I got through hosting the New Year's Eve dinner party for eight by devoting a whole day to skivvying, helping with all preparations (hub did the cooking), and by not drinking any alcohol at all.  You will see why this was necessary when I tell you that his menu plan included the following:

Two starters, for one of which he insisted on making his own mayonnaise from raw eggs.  For the other he made vegetable stock by boiling a saucepan full of fresh veg which then had to be thrown out.  (Stock cubes and mayo from a jar are anathema).

Three puddings, nothing simple like fruit salad.  Apricot frangipane tart (he made his own pastry and his own frangipane, you could just grate marzipan).  Cheesecake, (again, he made his own sponge base, you could use mashed up biscuit crumbs in butter).  And Delia's ginger sponge puddings, which involve three steps, make the sponge, grill it, and cover it with a creamy ginger sauce.

The main course I have left until last, as reading it might cause a loss of will to live. 
Pea puree (with fresh mint). Asparagus.  Lemon sauce (made by melting butter and zesting fresh lemons).  And the centrepiece - salmon fishcakes.

For this, you have to peel, boil and mash potatoes,  and bake the salmon in an aromatic bath in the oven.  Then you flake the salmon and mix with shallots and a few other flavourings.  Form into balls, dip them in raw egg, then breadcrumbs (home-made, naturally), and finally fry in a deep-fat fryer.
I spotted hubby hovering over the supposedly automatic fryer with the basket in one hand and a jam thermometer in the other, constantly monitoring their progress.

So, an eight-stage process, which ended this morning with us throwing out all the oil from the chip pan (after two arguments provoked by the difficulties), and me saying, with deep feeling, "I really, really hope you never make that dish again."

Chip Pan Dismantled in Disarray, a Defective Robot.

In his book, Gary Rhodes describes his recipe with the words, "This is simple to make."

Fortunately the neighbours seemed to really enjoy the party.  They blew whistles, balloons and pea-shooters with abandon, helped by plenty of wine.  The meal ended with indoor fireworks.

 

 

Hub had gone to the office earlier to fetch a fire extinguisher, but it was not needed.   Thank goodness.  Now we can relax.

Surviving Christmas - the figures.

These are the rules I established for my own survival four years ago, (see post below in Dec 2011).

1. Cut everything you eat by 50%
2. Cut everything you say by 50%
3. Remember that everything can be mended. (But this was subject to doubt).


A new rule has emerged over the last year:

4. AVOID ALL ALCOHOL

I have found that even a few sips of champagne loosen my tongue to such an extent that I become the party bore (and that's if I avoid indiscreet remarks).

A couple of weeks before Christmas, we opened a bottle of cheap fizz, and two hours later I was attacking my husband over an argument about coats hanging up in the hall.  I tried to hit him, but fortunately we both burst out laughing and got over it.

Yesterday I studiously kept off the wine at lunch, and was amused to see that even hub's sister, (never known her to lose her patience while on our premises, in over thirty years) was a trifle testy with hub during the following exchange:

General conflab:  "You can't serve pannacotta to vegetarians because of the gelatine".
Hub:                      "But there is such a thing as vegetarian gelatine."
Hub's sister:           "What's that?"
Hub:                       "Vegetarian gelatine".
Sister:    testily       "I KNOW.  But what IS it?"

A bit later on, the same wine provoked my mother-in-law, who usually knows better than to offer advice on how we should run our home, to declare that we should put some pictures up in the  dining room.

Me (to hub):          "Can we discuss this at another time, please."
                               (Code for, this is going to be a big one, as you well know.)

Hub:                      Rolls eyes and sighs, acknowledging the above code.

Mother-in-law:      (Speaking of her best friend, who's 95) - "Well, Barbara's second husband wouldn't have pictures and as soon as he died, Barbara put up pictures."

Me:                         (heroically biting back words to the effect that if waiting for me to die is too long, I'm quite happy to get divorced and we can have pictures or no pictures in our individual houses).   Managing to say nothing. "Mmmmm".

Mother-in-law:      (casting eyes to the ceiling as if to say, - what my son has had to put up with all these years!)   "Well no pictures is no good.  It looks like you've just moved in."

Me:                        (Still silent, thinking, thank god I didn't have any alcohol,)  "Mmmmm."

Today I had to go and hide in a locked bathroom for several minutes to calm down after I was overruled by my husband, who had that manic glint in his eye which appears after a beer followed by champagne.  He insisted on opening a second bottle of the fizz, and downed both his own glasses, plus my mother-in-law's, while pouring a third for my daughter's partner who would be driving 125 miles later in the afternoon (and had also had a beer).  I had to take deep breaths and put my head between my knees, and keep telling myself, "It's not about you" until I was sufficiently calm to go and hide in the kitchen while doing the washing up.

Second rule is also subject to revision.   It is now "Cut everything you say by 80%.

I Find It Again

I found my three rules for surviving Christmas (below, 23rd December 2011), again.  The third one, "Everything can be mended" proved to be true.  Younger daughter and I are reconciled.  I apologised to her (having discussed the matter with older daughter) without leaving it too long to do so, and after some prompting, she accepted the apology.  She did not hug me, or apologise for HER behaviour, but there, what can you expect.  Her frontal lobes are taking an awfully long time to fill out properly, but then both my daughters were very late developers.  Younger is now 24, and has improved over the teenage years (by 400 per cent, I estimate), but still exhibits signs of teenage behaviour from time to time.  So it can only be a good thing that we have moved on, and she offered me her brand-new "Adele" CD to listen to before she had even listened to it herself.  Older daughter and I agreed that this constituted a gesture of reconciliation.

Also, Granny is forgiven after her inimitable series of recollections presented at the dinner table. As well as the one about music (see Christmas Day post), she also entertained us with memories of two little boys who were sent for a holiday from the Elephant and Castle in London to the Yorkshire countryside directly after the War and stayed in Granny's family home.  This was before she married. She was still living with her parents.  My two daughters were utterly enthralled.

I have managed to keep to rules one and two since that episode.  I have added a fourth.  It is important to go to bed at your normal time.  Staying up too late aggravates all issues in much the same way as a hangover or over indulgence in rich foods.  Ascetic, true, but I need all strategies to cope with a houseful of visitors, of all varieties, staying, staying far too long, and just dropping in, which has now gone on for over a week.

And it's not over yet.  Tomorrow night we host a New Years Eve Dinner Party for eight. 

I Lost It

So, it's happened.  After a week of non-work, inactivity, no company other than relatives, heightened food levels (although, thankfully, no alcohol except a glass of champagne on Boxing Day), I have lost it, big time.  I cracked last night when I ate three champagne truffles (Oh, just realised, maybe that is the connection), in quick succession and then felt cross with everyone, went to bed feeling unhappy with myself and all close relations.

This morning, managed to keep calm through minimal conversations with husband, hour-long phone call with brother in New Zealand, until younger daughter arrived in the kitchen.  She refused to help me switch the TV back on (she turned it off last night and left it in a state from which I could not rouse it even by pressing every button on the remote).  I called her a B**** and  a c** (animal with udders). I am  a terrrible person.  This is what Christmas does to you.  I have been unable to keep to my three rules, and the very worst of me has emerged to the surface.

Good Things Happen in Threes

#1 
We opened our porch door this morning to find a Christmas card in the letter box.  Nothing unusual you might think in that.  "We have received all the cards we normally do from our neighbours," I told hub.  "Then who can this be from?"  It was from the Muslim family who moved this year into the end house.  We were so touched.  That they could find the time and interest to remember OUR annual celebration.  (We barely know what theirs is - something in November?)  That they wanted to. Their generosity of feeling.

#2
After Christmas lunch, elder daughter fetched out her violin and played some Christmas carols in the dining room.  What joy. 

When we had the sitting room redecorated two years ago, we got rid of the piano, and since then there has been no  music at Christmas. 
Now, daughter has brought music back into the house.  I am overjoyed.

Next, mother-in-law adds another layer of emotion to the mix.  She reminisces about the day that elder daughter first showed an interest in music, asking to learn the recorder.  This was in a holiday cottage twenty years ago, when both parents-in-law used to come on holiday with us.  I do remember the tune I taught her was "Bee, bee, Busy bee, busy, busy, busy bee" - all on one note, the note B.  It was indeed the date that daughter first started to learn music. Being one of the parties, I don't have a picture of the scene in my head.  Granny does, and tells us.  I am moved by her recollections, and dumbfounded that she can still see it as clearly as the day it happened.  Wish we had a video-camera.  But Granny has the picture locked in her memory.


#3
The books I gave for Christmas have given delight and interest.  Two of them were second-hand but didn't look it.  Elder daughter received "Things I Wish My Mother Had Told Me" and read it for hours.  I gave younger daughter a book about the Peak District, but it was Auntie (hub's sister) and her partner who pored over it.  They live in Manchester, and have done many of the walks pictured, and even met one of the famous walkers who opened up Kinder Scout and started the Rambling Association.  No-one said anything about the books being less than absolutely pristine, although I think they might have suspected something.

Hub received his own version of a "pre-owned" book.  Some old person in Granny's circle was given a Nigella cookbook.  No longer interested in cooking, she donated it to a raffle.  Granny's best friend, (90), won the raffle, and being too old to cook, passed it to Granny, who passed it to Hub.  I love it - appears to be a mixture of "Express", "Comfort Food" and "Cakes".  Have looked at every recipe and even my jaded and worn-out attitude to cooking has received a jolt of inspiration.  Particularly interested in the vivid green marshmallow pie.

So, three good things have happened today, and three books have brought pleasure.  Ending on cake and books, just as it should be.

The Christmas Letter

Sarky journalists have been making a few shillings these last years by writing annually about how naff the Christmas letter is, and how boring.  This year, a Times reader answered back, and published a letter asking if she was the only reader who feels devastated if there is no "news" attached to the Christmas card.

I am with that reader.  If I haven't seen the person during this calendar year, I send a letter.  No matter how recently I saw them, I love to read whatever they choose to include in their letter.  Perhaps, the sentence should stop after "I love to read".  The longer the better, and two closely typed A4 pages about all the holidays taken will keep me enthralled.

I have had  feedback from time to time about my letters.  One friend of my husband's (dating back to 1972) expressed surprise that there was so little about hubby in the letter.  Well, as he doesn't play any musical instruments, or take exams, and his only sport is golf, that is hardly surprising, is it!

Another friend of my husband's (now an ex-friend), complained that all we did was boast about how wonderful our girls were.  I, on the other hand, am always happy to read about the successes of other people's children (now moving on to their adorable grandchildren!)

One year, I wrote two Christmas letters.  The official one, about how wonderful everyone is, and where we went on holiday.  Then the unofficial one, which included details of some of the more epic marital rows, and household problems that year (the only one of which I can recall is that nine different plumbers crossed our threshold).  I think I sent that to one very close friend.  She thought it was funny, which is about the best one can hope for.

What that taught me was that in every aspect of life, one can present two different faces.  The public, cheerful one, which emphasises the positive, which looks smart and well-kempt,  and remains upbeat.  The other face, the deep, dark and troubled one, exists in every life, but is better kept in a dark cupboard.  As I grow older, I find that even with one's closest, nearest and dearest, there is little sympathy for the dark side, and it is better not to bring it out for inspection.  And then, as my mother said about grumpy faces: "If the wind changes, you'll stay that way!"  So, if I keep looking smart and cheerful, I will grow to be that person more and more, to everyone's benefit, especially mine.

Rules for Surviving Christmas

This is what I posted last year, just after the festive season ended.

1. Cut everything you eat by 50%
2. Cut everything you say by 50%
3. Remember that everything can be mended.

I managed to follow my own rules more or less. I cut what I might have first thought of putting on my plate by one-third on average, although overall because I didn't have ANY Christmas cake, Christmas pudding, or mince pies, it probably averaged at half. This meant that my digestive system kept to its normal schedule, and liverish discomfort, groaning intestines, did not cause bad temper.

I did try to limit what I would say. However, by the fourth day (my husband's relatives stay for five days, my ONLY relative stays for five hours -you can see my problem), my resolve was cracking.

My determination not to elaborate on any point was broken down by the fact that after four days, there is little left to talk about. I would rather have kept silent about my new job, (well new on 1st December 2009), and not put it out for dissection and criticism. However, in the face of relentless company, I described the not-for-profit organisation I work for, and how wonderful it is. My mother-in-law's immediate, and more or less only, comment, was: "But they ARE paying YOU?"

I felt sick. Why do I let myself fall for this family's incredible materialism, time after time? I am not exaggerating when I say that money is my mother-in-law's almost sole topic of conversation. If you come into a room where a conversation is already going on, it will almost always be about a divorce, some unreasonable ex-wife, a will, or house-prices.

This leads me to my third rule. "Keep thinking that everything can be mended." I was thinking about kettles, the outside tap, a flat car battery, when I wrote that down. But some wounds never heal. Her remark reminded me of the occasion when she sent a seven-year-old child's birthday card by second class post, and it did not arrive in time. Not everything can be mended.

This year:  update

The relatives will arrive this evening.  I will try to keep quiet and be polite.