So Christmas Day is over with all traditions swept back into the box, stored until next year. Not the tree decorations and cards, which remain for as long as possible (albeit with a faintly superstitious feeling about Twelfth Night), but all the activity surrounding the day.
If, like me, you have achieved an almost unchanged Christmas ritual for 66 years, you are either a) unadventurous to a staggering degree; b) a soppy nostalgic fortunate to be indulged in your whims by those around you; or c) too scared to discover whether you’d enjoy something else.
What would happen if we threw caution to the wind and flew to the Caribbean to have a picnic on white sands? Or spend the day, in pyjamas, with a jeroboam of champagne, a tub of caviar and old movies?
The world wouldn’t stop turning, of that much I’m sure, but such is my love for Christmas tradition that I’m too apprehensive to find out.
From the piling of gifts 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 love it.
But this year, for a variety of reasons, I had to give in to a change of plan.
All the above were still in place but instead of cooking a huge feast at home for extended family and friends, we went to a restaurant – just my son, his father and my boyfriend.
Absent was the fridge stuffed with cheese and brandy butter, the brined huge turkey à la Nigella soaking in a bucket in the garden shed, bowls of chopped and pared carrots, parsnips, red cabbage, and the Christmas Eve peeling of potatoes. Instead, I was slumped on the sofa watching Funny Girl and King’s College carols on TV.
I have achieved an almost unchanged Christmas ritual for 66 years, but this year for a variety of reasons this year, I had to give in to a change of plan, writes ALEXANDRA SHULMAN
Instead of cooking a huge feast at home for extended family and friends, we went to a restaurant (file photo)
Throughout Christmas Day morning, I had dramatic twinges of muscle memory reminding 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, to remember to put the water on for the pudding, or make a crucial decision about whether maple syrup or honey would be best for parsnips.
Our kitchen was a strange land on a Christmas morning with nothing to do but make a pot of coffee. I kept expecting the doorbell to ring with new guests tumbling into the house in a noisy mass.
In the end, I admit that going out was nice.
My son said it was wonderfully calm – read into that what you wish. We had a table in The Park restaurant where we could watch crowds pile into Kensington Gardens for their afternoon walk.
Crackers were on the table and the menu allowed us to dump tradition if we wished and feast on pasta, hot dogs, clam chowder and ice cream sundaes.
We chatted to other families, who, like me, all felt they needed to offer an explanation for their presence. It was as if everyone believed it was slightly the wrong thing to be doing. And then we went back to a house with no washing-up, but presents to explore.
But I’ll tell you what. 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 I really needed anything. I have been supremely spoilt on the gift front but that didn’t mean I’d pass up the opportunity to buy a reduced-price Nutribullet and a pair of purple John Lewis joggers that suddenly seemed to be a must-have.
They are entirely unnecessary but will team with the purple
knitted hat 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 an old woman, I shall wear purple.’
Brands that warrant my seal of approval
Cadbury’s loss of its Royal Warrant is big news. But the list of those firms which made the grade is a comforting reminder of an unchanging Britain – Kent bristle hairbrushes, Bendicks chocolate, Peter Reed bed linen, Weetabix and Jeeves of Belgravia dry cleaners.
Reading the list is like a lolling in a warm bath, but spare a thought for those who have lost their cherished status, such as Boots, Schweppes, Elizabeth Arden and, surprisingly, Angostura bitters. Are they really knocking up G&Ts in Sandringham without Angostura?
In the same spirit, I have drawn up my own list of ‘By Appointment to the House of Shulman’ warrants. Rose’s lime juice cordial (no other brand is acceptable), Badedas Original bath gelee, Brillo pads, Smythson stationery, M&S and Fortnum & Mason would be surefire appointees.
Almost all of these are brands, but if Queen Camilla can include her loyal hairdresser Jo Hansford in the royal list, I’d like to add mine, George Northwood. He would look truly dashing with a coat of arms on his T-shirt.
A cheeky gift… or sexual harassment?
Back when I was single and working on a newspaper, a male colleague and friend gave me a pair of red lace knickers as a Christmas present.
I’d never owned a pair of red lace knickers before and didn’t much like them but took the gift in my stride, so to speak. For weeks, colleagues jovially compared the gift with the one the man had given his girlfriend – a saucepan.
Today, would that be logged as unwelcome sexual behaviour?
Beyonce and her secret girl power
Beyonce performs with her daughter Blue Ivy at an American football game between Baltimore Ravens and Houston Texans on Christmas Day
Beyonce and her young daughter Blue Ivy performed together at an American football game in Houston on Christmas Day.
Both were in the full country regalia of white stetsons, sequins and chaps.
Blue Ivy must be the only 12-year-old in the world prepared to dance with their mum, togged up in the same clothes.
Most girls her age will do anything to escape the mortification of looking like their mother, let alone dance with her.
What’s Beyonce’s secret?