The seventh day of cheesemas

 You did it! You made it to the 7th day of Cheesemas, which means that you lived another year, unlike these people https://www.bbc.com/news/extra/w8pmj2u36t/notable-deaths-2023

The 7th day is my least favourite because as a child I thought it was death day and although I’m grown up and can use my powers of logic I’ll never quite get over the idea that on this day hundreds of famous people get called back to wherever it is famous people came from. When I was a teenager, my grandad died young, suddenly and unexpectedly on New Years Eve, cementing my belief in death day. Ted might not have been famous but he was certainly a legend. 

I don’t want to be a grump, because loads of people enjoy the countdown to the end of something and looking forward to a new period of the same thing. Oh, who am I kidding? I’m a grump about New Year. There’s nothing to be done. Embrace it. Go and see a film, have a curry and get an early night. Perfect.

It does mean that I have to forego friends’ cheeseboards but I have discovered that a saag paneer works just as well. 

I do, however, hope and wish that everyone (and I do mean everyone, even though that doesn’t seem to be possible) has a good year. 

The sixth day of cheesemas

 That’s it. You are half way through. Well done. Keep going. Keep chucking the crumbs from your cheeseboard into your pasta sauce. 

The 6th day, for me, is the one where I start to panic. Too many days on the sofa with a good book, a slice of Christmas cake and blob of Stilton makes you realise how little time there actually is. Maybe it’s too much cheese but day 6 is existential crisis day.

“What am I doing with my life?”

“What’s the point?”

“What’s it all for?”

The house is beginning to look a bit grubby, the Christmas tree is balding, the washing basket is overflowing and your sock drawer is threatening to get out of control. 

Day 6 is when they release the list of people who are to be awarded New Year’s honours and you realise that you are never going to be somebody. Not that you want to be. The idea of all that fuss makes you twitch but still, it makes you question your life choices. 

You look at the half finished jigsaw, the umpteen craft projects that you started and didn’t finish. If you are me, you might even pick up that first draft of a novel you wrote and wonder why. 

You just begin to despair, start to clean the fridge and then you find a Christmas pudding flavoured truckle that escaped the cheeseboard. Oh, happy days. Who needs to worry about self identity when there is cheese?

The Fifth day of Cheesemas

 Day 5. The cheeseboard is looking a little depleted. It’s time to use some of those scraps. Maybe a cauliflower cheese or crack out the Breville sandwich toaster.  Use those leftovers though because it’s not long before you’ll  need to go shopping again. There’s another roast to make soon. 

It’s also time to go out. If you didn’t manage it yesterday then today is the day. It’s time to get back in training. Go somewhere you have to wear a bra and can’t go to the toilet whenever you like. Maybe be around a few ill people and build up that immune system again. Get Covid out of the way before you have to go back to school. 

We chose ABBA voyage. It was the Long Suffering Husband’s Christmas present. He had dropped enough hints and so I succumbed, even though I wasn’t sure. Call me grumpy but I hate the idea of holograms pretending to be live music. But it was ABBA and who doesn’t love ABBA? And it was the 12 days of Cheesemas and so a musical cheesefest seemed appropriate. 

We had a great time. It was a very enjoyable experience. 

But…

I’m going for it. Sorry. 

I’m with the woman who was being berated by her family.

“It was wooden,” she said “I’d rather watch a tribute band.”

“But this was the real ABBA,” they said.

“IT WAsn’t,” she started to shout back before swallowing the rest of her words.

There’s a touch of the emperor’s new clothes about this show. Because it’s ABBA (international treasures) and the lights are great and there is a live band (working a bit too hard) with a totally awesome conga player and very skilled sound technicians (although, even they couldn’t get rid of some of the muffling) it feels wrong to criticise. 

And it’s great fun.

Did I mention that? We really did enjoy the show. Even if, during the animation part the LSH turned to me and said, “This isn’t what we came for.” 

I don’t want you to hate me. I love ABBA. I love cheese in all forms but as I write this (the morning after on day 6 - half way through) I caution you not to feed the cheese rinds to the dog. Baron Bigod is smelly enough going in. Has anyone got a gas mask? 

The fourth day of Cheesmas

 What? Wait. 4th day? Are you sure it’s not the 5th day? Did I forget to put the bins out?

If you didn’t have to go back to work straight after Christmas it is time to venture out of the house. Get out of those pyjamas, as lovely as they are, maybe even put on a bra (not for a whole day, I’m not mad, bras are not for Cheesemas). Maybe it’s the day you take back the jumper that you stupidly thought would be a break from the traditional blue or the dress he bought you that didn’t have pockets. 

If you are from a large extended family then you might still be visiting. 

For many years, the 4th day of Cheesemas was when my mum’s sisters got together. Not when I was very young but later, after my grandparents had died and they all had their own growing families with grandchildren and spreadsheets to work out which child was going to be where on what day. This day seemed a safe distance from the turkey day but also close enough to still be part of the celebrations. One year, though, it got moved to Easter and we made it snow. The thing about extended family is that you don’t expect to see them all the time but you know that they are there. 

You’d meet at one of these gatherings and as you depart you’d suffer the hug and say, “Until the next wedding, funeral or Christmas. Whatever comes first,” hoping that it wouldn’t be a funeral because it would be better not to see them for a year than to have one missing at the next event. 

This 4th day of Cheesemas blog is dedicated to my Uncle Frank, who loved a wheel of brie and a whiskey. He didn’t quite make this his last Christmas and was an important part of my festive childhood. He and my dad were always in some kind of weird competition: Christmas Day lunches with my grandad, seeing who could walk the white line down the middle of the road (grandad couldn’t - fell off - had to go to A&E). Louder shouts of, “I grew that..” “I shot that…” with each mouthful of roast game bird or brussel sprout that went in your mouth. A joint competitiveness springing up to combine forces to cheat at monopoly, just to wind up our neighbour. The later gatherings, usually involved some kind of dressing up - a talent show or a play - anything to keep such a large and diverse bunch of people from talking politics and Frank would arrive with balloons up his jumper. 

Popping on some of mum’s perfume and visiting her sister for a condolence hug was the surprisingly enjoyable way I spent my 4th day of Cheesemas. When I got home I had cheesy chips and stalked the photo albums.

The third day of cheesemas

 Now, I don’t want to confuse you even more but I am writing this at the end of the day after Boxing Day. You are probably reading it on the day after the day after Boxing Day. The day after Boxing Day is the first day of limbo. If you have been for a walk on this day and met people you know they will have greeted you with, “Happy Christmas, or should I say Happy New Year? I don’t even know what day it is. Oh no. Did I forget to put the bins out.”

Some people will have gone back to work (or their full time golf hobby, if they are retired) The alarm probably didn’t go off and they started the third day of Cheesemas in a complete panic. Those of us lucky enough to be in education have limbo. The cheese coma is just kicking in and we are a little confused about most things. Our social batteries are drained. The dog is all peopled-out and is happy to pin you to the sofa, acting as an anxious weighted blanket. 

The cheeseboard is still looking pretty amazing. You crack out some of the wonderful chutney you got for Christmas and pair your breakfast cheese with a mince pie, your lunchtime cheese with a leftover sandwich (you might even give the Friends moistmaker layer a go) and for tea you work your way through the pure undulated cheese-fest that you haven’t really had much room for in the previous two days. 

If you are lucky, someone will have bought you Grace Dent’s comfort eating book and you can devour the cheese chapter, while congratulating yourself on your upwardly mobile social status. You have Baron Bigod on your cheeseboard but still have a Dairylee triangle or two in the fridge. Cheese feels like a cuddle, says Grace and you nod in agreement. 

The second day of Cheesemas

 The second day of Cheesemas, known to some as Boxing Day, or to me as Books-in day is the first serious cheese day. Leftover turkey sandwiches, some mash and getting properly stuck into the cheeseboard and chocolates while you lounge around, read books and play games. 

Perfect!

The first day of cheesemas

 It’s Christmas Day, otherwise known as the first day of Cheesemas. 

It’s a little overwhelming on the cheese front. You have eaten your body weight in Brussels, roast potatoes and have smothered half a jar of your homemade cranberry sauce on the turkey to make it bearable  (why do we have turkey?) You started with a soup or prawn cocktail and followed it with Christmas pudding and custard, brandy butter and cream. You felt obliged to tuck in to stop the host realising that they catered of every relative, living, dead, or eating elsewhere. You are so full you hope someone rolls you to the sofa and allows you to forgo the family game of charades. 

You missed the King’s speech but Christmas Day Doctor Who is a tradition to be savoured. Just as the family is explaining the confusing (why do they do this to us, don’t they know we are in a food coma?) back and forth timelines to each other, someone says, “Oh no, we forgot the cheeseboard.”

You all sit up and pat your bellies earnestly. 

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“I’m still quite full.”

“What about coffee?”

“Oh yes, a coffee would be lovely.”

“And a mince pie?”

“Absolutely! It wouldn’t be Christmas without it.”

“Shall I just open the Stilton then?”

Chunk of Stilton, bite of mine pie, slurp of coffee. The perfect start to the 12 days of Cheesemas. Try it if you don’t believe me. 

Come and Join the Celebration

 The trouble with traditions is that time can change them and you are left feeling weirdly bereft.

Last night at the Christmas Eve church service there was a sense that things were changing. A new vicar. An older lady. Quiet. Understated. Some carols people didn’t know how to sing. How do you fit ‘Enough for him whom cherubim’ into that first line of In the Bleak Midwinter And who knew that the comma in God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen was there and it wasn’t a song asking God to look after the drunk men in your family? 

On the walk home we were discussing the changes we had seen with each vicar and how some are kept and others discarded. One vicar introduced a riotous version of the 12 days of Christmas at the end (which will cause a town uprising if it’s dropped) and another introduced real candles, which is the most beautiful symbology (spreading the light from one person to the next), although a huge health and safety nightmare. My daughter was upset that we don’t sing, “Come and join the celebration, it’s a very special day,” with its weird robotic scanning of words anymore.  The message is nice and clear, though. 

“Why do things have to change, though?” she said, wide-eyed and innocent. I like the traditions.

Many of my friends are struggling with that this year too. Our children are grown, have partners, live away. So, we have to make new traditions. I met someone on a dog walk who was telling me that they needed to make a spreadsheet of where all the children were and when just to keep track of it. 

It is the fallow period. CBGC. (Christmas before grandchildren). I remember that my parents hated it. They even tried going on holiday but they were just mourning the loss of the big family Christmas. People who say, “I don’t know what it is, I just don’t feel Christmassy this year,” are suffering from a change in their Christmas tradition.

Today, though. I’m going to remind myself that it is a celebration and there are many things to celebrate. Not least that there will be people who will come and join my celebration. 

Mince pie for breakfast anyone?

I seem to have made 48 for just 4 people!

OK

 Whoever said that it’s ok to be not ok is bonkers. Right? It’s not ok. It’s horrible. Really. And at this time of year so many people are right on the edge of not being ok that they don’t want your ‘not ok’ to worry about as well. Seriously woman, can’t you just hold it together until books-in day? Fall apart then, like all good musicians do, when no one will notice. That will feel so much better. 

The truth is I’m not ok at the moment but I don’t want you to know. 

Why are you writing this blog then, idiot?

It’s not as stupid as you might think. The worst thing, for me, (and I appreciate that everyone is different) is that people will notice that I’m not ok and treat me differently. 

I suspect that in this month of overwhelm my ‘perfectly fine’ suit has taken a few knocks. It’s looking a bit battered and dented in places. The metal has cracked and in a few areas the light of my bonkers is shining through. 

It’s my fault. I took my eye off it. I didn’t write about the niggily little problems. I didn’t laugh at my own stupidity and so here we are with you probably noticing and me confessing so that you don’t think I’m just a grumpy old anti-social twit. 

If you do see me and notice the bonkers shining through the crack can you just pretend it’s not there? Imagine you see someone funny and great to be around. For me, it’s not ok to be not ok. Do everything you can to pretend that I’m perfectly fine. 

The Long Suffering Husband is good and bad at this in equal measure. Being an engineer, he got out the fragile tape, which was both funny (good) and terrifying because he’d seen the cracks and was prepared to highlight them with the tape. 

He was away for the weekend and before he went I had a small panic about not having started any Christmas shopping. 

“Perfectly fine,” he said, “You’ve got a whole weekend without me. You can go shopping then.”

Great. Except that I wasn’t perfectly fine.

“Did you go shopping?” he asked.

“Hmm Mmmn,” I mumbled vaguely.

“Oh good,” he said, pretending not to notice. 

“What did you buy?”

“A chalk pen,” I swallowed my words, ashamed of my inability to buy a single Christmas present. And this is where he was brilliant. Instead of noticing that I had spent a whole weekend eating biscuits (thank you to the person that delivered a box to my house) and drawing on the windows, he pretended that I had done something amazing. 

Ok. 

A man in a suit?

 Silly season is here. It has arrived, amazingly, with a light dusting of snow. This is just what a woman my age needs when spending many evenings outside. My hips are creaking , I have chilblains on my chilblains, my lips are chapped and crusty and I have no sensation in the ends of my fingers. 

Would it be Christmas without it though?

When I retire, or crack, like an ice sculpture heated too quickly, I’m sure I will miss it. Christmas will suddenly become shopping (which I hate) and a man in a suit.

It wouldn’t be Christmas if I wasn’t responsible for freezing small children half to death in the name of entertainment.

On Friday I took a dozen 5 and 6 year olds to the local pub. They were very excited about it, walking round the school telling anyone who’d listen that they were going to the pub with me and the headteacher. We were to sing before Santa switched the lights on.

When I told the children one said, “Ah but is it the real Santa or just a man in a suit?”

I had to confess that I didn’t know and that we would just have to wait and see.

Before the children arrived I was allowed to wait inside the heated tent with Santa and the put-upon-eye-rolling Mrs Claus. Once the first child arrived it was outside for me to continue my job of freezing small children.

While I was waiting, though, I began to have my suspicions that I wasn’t chilling with the real deal. 

I’ve always assumed that Santa would be slightly narcissistic. In our house he always left presents wrapped in paper emblazoned with his image but I didn’t expect him to be quite as obsessed with the selfie.

Mrs Claus looked at me, sighed, and said, “You’d think he’d have had enough pictures of himself by now.”

“No one ever thinks of Mrs Claus, do they?” I said sympathetically.

I’d hit a nerve.

“No. All I ever do is drive him from place to place, while he cuddles up with all the girls and then I have to pretend that we left the sleigh in a field.”

Santa was, at this point, giving a young woman in a flimsy elf costumes a hug to ‘warm her up.’ Mrs Claus eyes rolled almost to the back of her head.

This children sang amazingly and then Santa came out to do his magic. He explained that his magic was a bit depleted (I’m not sure why; maybe Selfies with Elfies) and he needed their help to count down. 

5

4

3

2

1

Nothing.

Then just as he turned his back the lights came on.

One of the children looked at me, winked and said, definitively, “Man in suit!”

Then there was a bit of children’s Christmas chaos in the tent, which I couldn’t stay for and I’m told he gave out business cards. Dangerous to give a group of 5/6 year olds Santa’s personal hotline but at least there would be no need for the elves to sit on shelves. 

Video evidence