Fuck New Year

I miss my mum. She hated it too.

Cheesemas

 I worry about people.

Specifically the people who can’t enjoy Cheesemas.

The period between Christmas and New Year, where there’s no pressure. You don’t have to DO anything. I know that many people go to work but the principal is true even there. All you have to do this week is survive. If you can manage to stay off tomorrow’s dead people list then anything else can wait until the new year. 

When I was a child this was the period of the big jigsaw puzzle. Because the dining table wasn’t needed it was the perfect opportunity. You’d wander past with your plate of cheese, handful of Twiglets and a toffee penny from the Quality Street tub in your back pocket and slide a few pieces in. Nothing too strenuous. No expectations.

How come there are people in the world who can’t enjoy that?

I didn’t know those people existed until the invention of Twitter. I thought everyone was revelling in the no pressure season. Long walks, short walks, stops at coffee shops, grazing food and drink all day, sleeping more, reading, drawing, writing, listening to music, watching old films, a spot of shopping but only if you fancy it.

It’s an introvert’s paradise.

Just over 50% of the population are introverts. It should be a happy time and even extroverts benefit from a little down-time and if not they have other extroverts to do people-y things with. Things with no demands. A hassle free life.

Over on Twitter are the people who hate Cheesemas. Unless someone is telling them what to do and placing loads of demands on them they are bored and fractious. They pick fights and call each other names. I know they do that all the time but because the rest of us are blissfully full of cheese we stop in, look, raise an eyebrow and slide another jigsaw piece in before grabbing the salt and vinegar Pringles (we know they’re disgusting but it’s part of the ritual), rather than playing the game and getting all het up about it.

So, there they all are. The Glinners, the John Cleeses, the Julia Hartley-Brewers and the Andrew Tates. Shouting into the void. Surprisingly, Piers seems to love Cheesemas. 

You might have missed it  beacuse you were passing the fridge or had your nose in a book but one of the Cheesemas haters just shot himself in the foot and it was glorious.

Andrew Tate, self confessed kick-boxing bad boy “I don’t believe in rape I just think I should be free to do what I want.” and TikTok shit-stirrer, decided to pick a fight with Greta Thunberg. 

Greta loves Cheesemas (it’s probably vegan cheese but it still counts - nut roast lasts for weeks) but she happened to be between romantic comedy films and wrote a short sassy reply. Others who were passing because colouring for adults had got too difficult or the Baileys glass was empty noticed, had a chuckle and told their friends. The Romanian police looked up from their samale with extra sauerkraut and noticed a pizza box.

“Quick! He’s in the country. We can finally arrest the twit for sex trafficking.”

And so they did.

Honestly, Cheesemas is the best time of year. If you don’t enjoy it then I worry about you, you could end up in a Romanian prison.

Christmas Highlights

Can you even call yourself a woman if you don’t bullet journal your Christmas?

 Today marks the end of the tits and teeth Christmas. When I was younger it would be Christmas highlight day. School church service (always booked on my day off) followed by a drink and a mince pie on my own with a book in a coffee shop before going to the hairdresser. It was always a challenge not to nod off in the chair. Then I would go home a watch a Muppet Christmas Carol while making lists. Now that I have natural white streaks I can just get on with the process of catching up on the things that have kept other women awake for months.

I need to make lists. And check them twice. Presents, food, shopping, baking, cleaning, decorating, wrapping. This one day causes so much stress and women measure their value by its success or failure. There are TikToks to watch on how to cut carrots into Christmas tree shapes. The cupboards need to be stocked with food no one is allowed to eat because ‘it’s for Christmas’. First, though, those cupboards need cleaning. So much needs cleaning. I can’t invite people into the house with dirty skirting boards. Put the Christmas soap in the downstairs loo. The shower! Oh my God! The shower! Christmas will be ruined if it’s not draining properly. 

It’s true. There’s  a lot to do in four days. I really should get on with it but it can wait, right? Half a day of rest. I know most of you have been doing this stuff for ages but please tell me it can wait another day. Yes. That’s it I’ve decided . As long as there are enough roast potatoes everything will be fine and I promise not to punch anyone who asks me if I’m ready for Christmas. I’ve got 4 days, so I’m going to have my Christmas Highlights day without visiting the hairdresser.

Your part in the Nativity….

 It’s that time of year where creative writers are allowed to write in newspapers. Serious news publications are stuffed to the stockings with articles that claim to predict your child’s future from the part they had in the school nativity play.

Roughly, it will go like this:

Mary & Joseph - not as good as you’d expect. Often a non speaking role; nice to look at but maybe not all that bright. However, they will do well in life if they keep their looks; always promoted above their abilities.

Kings - the wise men of the class. Can be relied upon to come in on time and say difficult words. The tax accountants of the future.

The star - overly dramatic but not annoying. To be found on cruise ships in her twenties and teaching in a primary school once she has children.

Photo of a fantastic Christmas card I received one year

Shepherds - this is the role the papers will convince you that you don’t want your children to have. Always late, forgetting their lines with a tea towel on their head. Future Amazon delivery drivers.

Donkey - what more do they need to say? The description is in the title. This child is a donkey and will grow up to be a donkey.

Inn keepers - children who can say ‘No’ loud and proud. These little creatures are no push over and will grow up to be whatever they want. These are the ones to watch.

Angels  - loud out of tune singers with a strong opinion of themselves. These will be the women to avoid at the school gate.

Farmyard animals - these are the stinky non-verbal kids. Despair now if your child is the Ox. You must be a terrible parent. There is no hope for your child, they’ll be lucky to even get a job.

Narrator - this child loves words and is a great reader. You can guarantee that the person writing the article was a narrator and is still a little miffed that they weren’t Mary or Joseph. Being a good reader should have got them a better paid job than this!

We all love it when the story fits the archetype.

So, when you read these articles you cast your mind back to your primary school days you think of the one King you know who is now a tax accountant and it confirms the stereotyping that we enjoy but you don’t think about all the children who didn’t have their lives defined by a play.

I watched the Harry and Meghan documentary last week and realised that they are a problem because they are refusing the archetype. In our fairy stories the brother of the future King is supposed to want to usurp his sibling and take the crown. His wife has to play the part of the evil Queen, pushing him in that direction. They want no part of it. This documentary is their way of showing that they are just quite boring people). Obviously, you won’t want to believe that. You’ll prefer the Daily Mail’s version, where everyone is cross with them for trying to bring down the royal family because this fits the archetype.

However, sometimes the donkey is just a child who is prepared to wear the costume and say hee-haw. Chill out parents. It is possible to break the archetype, not fit the story and just be boring. Most people’s lives would make a very tedious book or film.

Terracotta Camels

 I had the hump.

‘What do you mean it’s time to go out? I’ve only just got in and I’ve got humps to knit.’

It was the golf club Christmas Quiz, where, hilariously the pot luck round was followed by the general knowledge round and every history question set after 1945 was followed by the quizmaster saying, ‘you’ll remember that.’ I wasn’t good company because all I could think about was my humps.

The life of a primary school music teacher at Christmas is weird. I’ll admit that I am my own worst enemy. It isn’t necessary to make a 3 humped camel costume for one song in one performance but when the song is such a genius play on words that you don’t want the audience to miss, it’s unavoidable. Godfrey Humps. I have been excitedly talking about this fab song and how I want the choir to perform it at the choral society concert for a week now (which might not seem long to you but as every day seems to have 3 performances - it is actually a lifetime).

The Long Suffering Husband has listened patiently. Or so I thought.

However.

Every time I mentioned needing to work on the camel costume he said, ‘What camel?’ And I would tell him the story again.

I appreciate that it’s hard to keep up. So many concerts. So many camels. 

But.

When we were due to go to the quiz and I got the hump about my half finished humps I said, ‘I’m not telling you again.’

‘But I’ve forgotten,’ he said, ‘I have a memory problem.’

He doesn’t. 

He has the best memory of anyone I know.

He has poor listening skills.

In the 80s there was an advert for something I can’t remember where the girlfriend was talking and when she asked her partner a question he panicked and said ‘terracotta.’ Although we can’t remember what the advert was for, the LSH told our quiz partners that I was in a bad mood because of the terracotta camels. 

It’s striking to me

 It’s striking to me that the world is currently a little odd.

News reports tell of people in highly qualified skilled jobs in service industries not having enough money to buy food.

Local newspapers are running campaigns to set up warm spaces people can go to for free, rather than heating their own home.

Children are dying of Strep A infections because GP surgeries are too busy to see all the worried well. 

Yet, everyone seems surprised that people are prepared to go on strike to demand more money. It’s as though people are meant to look at their bosses in their big heated houses and check out their Instagram page of meals they’ve had out this week and say, ‘There’s no money. How dare I ask?’

Of course people are prepared to strike when things are difficult for them. This is when they do; when losing a week’s money is bad but they can’t afford food anyway, so really, what have they got to lose?

That’s nothing, though. 

The really weird thing is that I was just involved in a school nativity where nothing went wrong. Yes, you heard that. NOTHING. No camels having a poo on the stage. No crying angels. No scenery falling down. No out of time singing (well a tiny bit but they’re 5!). No shepherds’ punch ups. The worst that happened was that one of the sound system speakers was a bit quiet. The audience were good too. Even the sheep got a laugh for his baaa. 

Now, I don’t want to worry you but this is concerning. You might be worried about the polar ice cap melting or whether you will get to see Great Aunt Maud, what with the rail strikes and all that but a perfect nativity is unprecedented. It’s like lightning striking in the same place 5 times.

Denkmals und Bildhauerkunst

 In the middle of Vienna, in a cobbled side lane, behind the Hof, is Judenplatz. It’s a place you stumble upon by accident and wonder why it’s not a compulsory part of a visit to Vienna. The restaurants are good. Mostly, though, it’s the powerful memorial, erected by the Jewish museum  and designed by British artist Rachel Whiteread, that you should go and see. A concrete chamber made as an inverted library of 65,000 books, whose titles you can’t see; 65,000 Austrian Jewish people whose stories will never be written because they were murdered in the name of purifying Germany on the whim of an Austrian man who decided that everything was the fault of some immigrants. The stark contrast between the concrete block and the cobbled streets and baroque architecture

surrounding it takes your breath away.

On this visit, we didn’t find it by accident, instead choosing to routemarch our friends to it after watching a protest march and looking at a defaced statue that has been turned into a modern art structure.

Last time we visited Vienna there was an election going on. It was the start of rise of the right wing parties. Press were everywhere because it looked like, in Austria of all places, Naziism was starting again. They didn’t win the election but the movement had begun. 

We were crossing the road to Dr Karl Lueger Platz just a a noisy protest came through. Stop. I love a protest. 

I wouldn’t join but I love watching the people in them. The mixture of exhaustion and pride on their faces, always feeling that they are doing something special, making a difference, changing lives. Maybe they are. Who knows! God. I hope not. We were all impressed with the cowbells but the signs were terrifying. (I translated them as we sat in a wonderful restaurant eating Tafelspitz).

Close the borders

Repatriation now!

How dumb to use aggressive propaganda still to stop our pastures due to lockdown when further immigration is allowed.

Enough with masks - 3G - Gene injection - or merit - Santa animals - illegals- mass migration. (There might have been spelling mistakes in that one)

Free speech

Austria out of the Eu

Peace with Russia 

Quite depressing. History repeats. Suddenly, none of us are feeling hopeful about the future and we are worried about those Santa animals because no one wants the reindeer to take over.

After they passed and we crossed the road we found Leuger’s Denkmal: A statue of the burgermeister of Vienna between 1897 and 1910. It had been defaced. Black paint. Shame. A small stubby penis painted with spray paint. The city has embraced this vandalism and erected a modern piece of artwork over the top (neon pieces of plastic), including a QR code, highlighting the crimes of this man, who had used Jewish immigrants to make the city great.

Yes, the Christmas markets are great with lights, festive smells from Gluwein and wurstal stands, music everywhere but Vienna is so much more.

Vienna Waits

 Yes. That’s right, you are in for a JuliaofallTrades travel blog.

I left the country.

 Anxiety. It’s still a bit of a bugger and so I would like to apologise to anyone I snapped at on Friday. The weirdest thing happened, though. I got off the tube and emerged, blinking into the daylight and felt calm. Home. 

What? It’s not my home. I have been to Vienna once before and my sense of direction and aptitude for remembering have declined since then but deja vu is strong in this city.

We came with friends for the Christmas markets. There are nine of them in Vienna and from what I’ve seen so far they are crowded but good. If you want to eat bratwurst and drink Gluwein then Austria is the place to come. 

If you are reading for travel tips then here is my first: Avoid the biggest market, at City Hall square, just as it gets dark. Too crowded. Push. Shove. Panic. 

My second tip: Eat before you get to the point where you are going to kill someone. I saw sausage rage in the queues. 

We only intended to pop out for a quick bite to eat but, as usual, we walked. My friend, who has a heel injury, is probably going to regret this trip with us.

Lights twinkled, people shoved but by about 7 the crowds disappeared enough for locals to walk their dogs and I relaxed enough to notice the music. A trombone quartet. People carrying instruments in expensive hard cases. A harpist by the Christmas tree.

Travel tip 3: You probably don’t need the photo of the Christmas tree from underneath. You are likely to fall over and your friends will leave you to panic in the crush.

Music is everywhere in Vienna. You can barely move without tripping over Mozart’s balls. 

We are in a very nice hotel, with helpful staff, high ceilings, Austrian-style duvet per person (no fighting for the covers in Austria) and a shower cubicle in the middle of the room (bit weird but there’s a curtain) and it has its own opera singing spirit. 

The Long Suffering Husband was also awake by 6am, when the opera singing started. It was a  tuneful, rich and melodious baritone. 

“Can you hear that?” I asked, never fully trusting my senses.

“Yes. It’s outside,” he said, “Go to the window and look if you want.”

I couldn’t see anything. I opened the window to hear better and abruptly, mid-phrase, the aria ended. 

“That’s weird. Maybe it was a ghost,” the LSH suggested.

Trust Vienna to have opera singing spectres.

Elves and Old Ladies

 When I was a child, old ladies were grumpy. They’d snarl at children on buses, snap at young mothers to keep their babies quiet and stand on their doorsteps with crossed arms and disapproving frowns. Their blue and pink candy floss perms were the only cheerful parts of them. The reason that the Jenny Joseph poem hit home to us schoolgirls is that we were determined not to be ‘one of those’ when we grew up. Instead, we would wear purple, run our stick along railings and eat a pound of sausages in one go. 

Now, old ladies are grumpy. They wear purple, eat too many sausages so that they burp, fart and swear in public. Think Miriam Margoles. And they are bigoted. They have their views and nothing is changing them. 

Therefore, it is no surprise that a woman in the Royal household in her 80s would double down when questioning a dark-skinned woman where she was from. It makes for a fantastic news story. It’s good to draw attention to how annoying this must be and how it is racist because someone whose parents came from Holland (for example) would never be asked where they were from, however, we shouldn’t be surprised. It’s what old ladies do.

There are a lot of reasons for women to be grumpy and with age the grounds for crabbiness mount up.

A piece of technology I was using in class didn’t work because I had failed to ‘publish’ the class list that had taken me three days to upload. The children were very judgemental about my lack of computing skills, which is quite unfair as they managed to get us locked out of the site because they couldn’t spell their own names.

“It’s just that computers move so fast. They didn’t have computers when I was at school.”

They were shocked, so I told them about Oswald, a new exciting class computer that looked like an egg, was wheeled in on a trolley and could tell you if you’d added things up correctly, that arrived when I was in the top junior class (year 6 in their numbers).

“How old are you?”

I’m never worried about this question but I thought they needed to work for the answer so I gave them my birth year. Oh, who am I kidding? I gave them my birth year because I can never remember how old I am. I used to say 42 but that seems like too big a lie these days.

I was a little shocked to discover that I’m 96 though.

“Hmmm. I don’t think I’d be here if I was 96,” I said.

“No. You’d be on the couch.”

On the couch, being crotchety.

I can already feel the waspishness stinging at the thought of the elves. I hate the elves. Stop the elves.

“It wasn’t like that in my day. Encouraging such bad behaviour. Whatever happened to being on the nice list?”

Maybe I am 96 and it’s time to retire and sit on the couch.

In all honesty, though, I am probably just a little jealous of these young mums with energy and creativity to make a new scene every night. How they manage is beyond my comprehension. Sometimes the tooth fairy forgot to come to our house.