Thursday 29 December 2011

Round Robin


Dear Mum,

The presents have been opened and admired, the films have been watched, the hangover slept off, the turkey eaten and the waistband stretched.

All in all, I’d say 2011 was a good year for festive frivolities.

I am blogging to thank you for providing me with a ‘sample’ of Christmas cards to peruse. I do enjoy reading people’s tit-bits of news and updates.

You know that one of my favourite Christmas customs is reading the Round Robin letters that plague our yuletide joviality – I appreciate you positioning new ones by the kettle so I can read while making a brew.

These letters are dire, dismal and yet totally addictive for several key reasons.

Firstly, there is no personal message to this letter. It is very evident that fifty of these letters were printed out and stuffed into envelopes carelessly, with little regard for each family on the receiving end.

There is no thought of ‘How has the house move been?’, ‘How are your parents?’ or ‘What are your plans for 2012?’ Instead, these letters are riddled with reflections and social listings of the writers’ own lives.

Secondly, the type is invariably impossible to read. These letters take one back to the early noughties, when computers were still novel and all print-outs were written in Bradley Hand and Jokerman fonts. I find Comic Sans and Calibri adequate, thank you.

There are also always a few too many photos.

As pleased as we are that the five of you had a fabulous time in Singapore, we don’t need a picture of the family pretending to dive into the waters by the iconic Merlion statue. Nor one of Dad doing a similar pose by the pool in his Speedo. Vom.

The most bleak aspect of these letters, however, is the overload of details about personal lives. Never before has the phrase ‘too much information’ been used with such an acute relevance.

Particularly at our family home.

I am delighted that friends feel they can confide in our family of these details, although the fact that this is a Round Robin instantly reminds one that these same lines of tedious detail have been posted around the country.

I don’t regard these details as assisting in the strengthening of our relationship.

The Simpson family’s letter, for example, dedicated an entire paragraph to their jack russell, Molly. And although I am delighted that Hannah, their youngest daughter, and her boyfriend are wonderful dog-sitters, this has not enlightened my outlook on life or our blossoming friendship.

Similarly, Bill and Janet’s month by month summary 0f 2011 makes Molly’s subsection a lot more apealling. Take April, for example, when Bill was outraged that he couldn’t get his senior bus pass until a whole eleven months after his 60th birthday!

Goodness, thank you for informing me of this. I can now accept that the world has truly gone off its rocker.

This was the same family whose letter two years before informed their list of Christmas card recipients that their daughter had had her warts frozen off.

This is wrong on so many levels. Wrong that this is newsworthy; wrong that this information is shared outside the confines of family; wrong that this message was typed up, meaning conscious action (as opposed to accidentally letting it slip over a tipsy cocktail); and totally wrong of parents to inform friends they haven’t seen for years of their poor daughter’s misfortune.

Shame on you.

I’d like to think that if I had any such hard luck you wouldn’t broadcast it to our nearest, dearest or distant acquaintances.

But I must confess I thoroughly enjoy these letters - simply because I love to gasp and snort at their sheer absurdity. Rather like when you put your finger in something unpleasant and can’t help but continuously sniff at it even though you know it makes you feel nauseous. Hours of entertainment.

But it does make one ask, what happened to the art of a personal letter? Although the build up to Christmas is always busy, a bit of extra time invested in writing a few lines on a Christmas card really does enter into the sentiments of goodwill. A handwritten paragraph giving a quick recap of the year’s events – or updates since you last saw the recipient – perhaps with a meet-up invite, this is thoroughly welcome.

Although I would miss the Round Robins should they stop... I look forward to hearing more about Molly, outrage at train fare prices and swapping a Saab for an Audi A3 in Christmas 2012 – but not before, please.

Saturday 24 December 2011

Drinking and Driving


Dear Mum

It’s Christmas Eve and I type this sitting in a cafe, sipping a cup of cha. You’re currently driving Kate to a friend’s thus continuing the traditional parental taxi service.

I, on the other hand, am watching the clock. The car is parked in a two-hour maximum stay car park. We’ve one hour, forty minutes left.

Dad is a few doors down from me, at a brewery for a wine and cheese tasting event and I’m his ride.

I’m very happy to do it. Sitting in this cafe, watching families reunited for the season and chirping ‘Merry Christmas’ is delightful. It’s not snowing (hallelujah!) and I have a week off work next week (God be praised!).

Thinking of Dad a few vicinities down the road, feeling mellow as he swirls glasses of ruby coloured elixirs – well, it’s what Christmas is all about. Treating yourself.

Whenever I’ve told people –people older than me, that is – that I’m driving for my drinking father this Christmas Eve, they say “about time!” or “the tables have turned!” (Correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t this imply that I’m constantly intoxicated and so require one of you to collect me from booze fests, driving me home as I hang my head out of the window like a panting mongrel? I don’t think this has once happened...?)

I think these family friends really mean that it’s only fair that younger generations return the favour as they age and give lifts to their partying parents. I agree with this.

I thoroughly relish seeing you and Dad get dressed up to go out, excitedly piling into my car, and if you return home tipsy even better. It’s most entertaining and is what Christmas should be all about. (Like the year you held a Christmas dinner party and treated guests to your rendition of FreddieMercury’s ‘Barcelona’ as you served up the pavlova, tipping your chair back and throwing your arms wide, clutching two serving spoons).

Kate confided in me only yesterday “I think Dad is trying to get me drunk” after he ladled more mulled wine into her glass.

“Well, quite right” was my response.

I repeated these sentiments on the journey over here, telling Dad “You just have a good time. You’re not to worry about me, just enjoy yourself. It is Christmas after all.”

Even you, Mum, admitted that when placing the ham in the oven at 7.30 this morning, dousing it in cider, you saved the last finger for yourself. ‘Why not?’ was my reaction. Christmas is the one time of year when alcohol and chocolate is an acceptable breakfast.

We’ve all worked hard and, like everyone around the world, have faced some difficult times this year. The four of us are entitled to lie-ins, bevies and sweet treats during the coming days. I plan on taking full advantage of Christmas traditions – I aim to feel full, fat and festive all day tomorrow.

Now, however, I best make a move. We’ve got half an hour left in the car park. I’m off to coax Dad from the brewery.

Merry Christmas!

Tuesday 20 December 2011

Ode to a Cheesecake

We all of us have an edible weakness - whether it be steak, Cadbury’s chocolate or caviar.  We all enjoy a specific foodstuff that makes one’s taste buds tingle with eager anticipation when one glimpses it on a menu.

My weakspot is cheesecake.

And I warn you, Mum, this letter is a dedication to the delicacy rather than a usual ‘Dear Mum’ epistle.

I can fully appreciate why some individuals are not a fan of the creamy dessert. It does seem perverse that a dessert’s chief ingredient is something that one previously enjoyed in a sandwhich, or on toast, or in a pasta dish.

But on a thick biscuit base, perhaps with a coulis or a few slices of fruit, that creamy cheese mixture is simply splendid.

It doesn’t matter how many calories I’ve eaten that day, or what the cost, if I spot a cheesecake on a menu or shop shelf my decision is already made for me.

Passion fruit, strawberry and champagne, fig and caramel, raspberry and white chocolate, New York vanilla with blueberry compote...

I’ll look at it with a yearning that can otherwise be equated to romantic desire.

Similarly when relishing the dessert it is me and that cake alone in the room. All other chatter is irrelevant, all other desserts are inferior, and I will end our sweet rendezvous with an analysis for the benefit of my fellow diners.

Points of discussion include ratio of cheese to biscuit base (the best cheesecake has a thick biscuit foundation); texture of cheese topping (not too wet, dry or stodgy, of course); the success of other ingredients (such as sauces, added textures etc.) and, crucially, the size of slice.

Pippa nails it by serving me two slices of cheesecake rather than one single large one, knowing that no matter how beautiful the cheesecake, the larger and more representative of a door stop the more likely I feel sheer terror. Needless to say I will still eat the cheesecake slice but will progress to feel distinctly nauseous.  

And on those rare occasions when I can’t manage a full slice (the only memorable occasion being at the Hard Rock CafĂ©, when a vat of nachos and burger weighing that of a discus inhabited my stomach) an hour later I am guaranteed to experience intense feelings of shame, regret and bafflement.

There is, however, one other memorable occasion...

I cooked a meal for Nat at uni and she (wisely) provided a cheesecake (strawberry) for dessert.

At this stage I had a housemate who was infamously tight with money; she willingly paid fistfuls of cash for sailing lessons but did not identify the need to reimburse her friends for luxuries like toilet paper and hot water. Upon recognising a give-away she was nothing but free, friendly and totally famished.

Nat and I ate a third of the cheesecake between us and arranged another night in to finish it.


Plans fell through, however, and when the outer edges of the cheesecake began to turn a transparent colour, I rang to ask “Do you mind if I go ahead and finish it?”

“My God!” she replied “You’ve gone a good three days without touching it? Very restrained!” (My thoughts exactly) “You go ahead.”

Upon removing the cheesecake from the fridge my housemate appeared from nowhere and nonchantly trailed after me - and the cheesecake.

“Watch and weep” I thought as I scooped chunks of creamy deliciousness from the dish, ensuring I ‘hmmed’ and ‘ahhed’ lots (not difficult).

I sat balancing the cheesecake on my chest so as to catch any crumbs and provide a stretched surface area of the stomach to improve digestion.

Green eyes weighted with greed flickered at me.

My housemate channel hopped, distracting herself I thought. But in a tactful move she settled upon 'Embarrassing Bodies.'

This was a well judged manoeuvre.

I had a quarter more to go.

It played to her strength that this particular episode was about genitalia and the word ‘cheese’ was used in discussion. I battled forth but upon meeting Scott and his eighteen month problem I pushed the cake across the coffee table.

“I give in, its yours,” I groaned, defeated.

Delighted, she threw the remote at me.

Very well played...

Monday 12 December 2011

Out with the old? In with the old!


Dear Mum,

I have, of late, experienced various craft events and vintage institutions, which offered a plethora of homemade keepsakes and reminders of the past.

As a result, I am itching to recreate past decades. This itching is, in part, due to the eighties style cable knit jumper I’m modelling. The one you said made me look like I should be in Wham!’s ‘Last Christmas’ music video.

My knitting needles have been clicking furiously and Caro Emerald plays on a constant loop as I hope to time travel to another decade – ideally not the nineties, having been there, done that and got the Spice Girls t-shirt.

A recent getaway break in Lyme Regis with Sarah offered a charming getaway.

A walk along the Cobb before tea amongst a caricature like group of locals made the two of us feel like we were in an Agatha Christie novel. Cue the suspicious disappearance of a wealthy young man. I’ll bring my knitting.

In our exploration of the coastal town we stumbled across two second-hand book shops.


One was positioned on the seafront, a crumbling, makeshift corner of a shop that was as large as the cupboard under the stairs yet packed to the rafters with volumes and tomes. We left no nook unexplored, no book untouched.

Another second-hand book store extended over two floors and consisted of some five rooms. Each room was cluttered with maps, postcards, puppets, record sleeves and patterned shawls plus leather hardbacks and forgotten paperbacks.

Customers found their feet tapping uncontrollably to the salsa music that filtered throughout the vicinity along with the vocal exercises of the owner – a chap in his sixties who wore a Russian-style fur hat.

Between them, these two shops stocked every book ever written. I bought a 1955 copy of Orwell’s ‘1984’ for just £5.25. This choice of purchase was mainly because of the Classic novel’s iconic orange cover and well thumbed appearance.

It even has that old book smell that you oh so loathe, Mum. I wouldn’t go as far as Cary Bradshaw in the first (and slightly better, only slightly) Sex and the City film when she inhales a book of love letters, sighing that she loves the library book smell.

But the idea of pages having been thumbed by over five decades of readers, as far back as post-war Britain and the Queen’s first years on the throne, does make cheer with P.G. Wodehouse sentiments of “Jolly good” and “What-ho!”

Similarly, at the Kitsch and Sitch Fair that you, Kate and I recently attended, the three of us cooed and swooned at old fashioned doilies and rusting jewellery.

Our nation has gone vintage crazy. Never before have shapeless crocheted cardigans and mismatched china been so desirable.

After all, the word ‘vintage’ essentially means ‘second-hand’ yet has been bandied around these past three years and gained a multi-layered definition as a result.

If one sees a CD Discman or black and white Nokia, for example, they’re labelled vintage. A Mickey Mouse watch from the 80’s is vintage. An old stained tea caddy is vintage.

If you had referred to Kate’s hand-me-downs as ‘vintage’ when I was fifteen I would most probably have worn them with more enthusiasm.

There is nothing wrong with this new label. Vintage items offer value for money, a one-off piece and a little piece of history. Ideal for a cash-strapped graduate with a hunger for a chic lifestyle.

Now where did I leave my sewing bag...?

Tuesday 6 December 2011

Rocking around the Christmas tree


Dear Mum,

I’m sure you’ve gathered that one of my favourite parts of decorating for Christmas is the festive CD, having pranced about the house in a Santa hat every year upon its first annual play.

Whilst The Buble is for Christmas dinner, his sultry croons providing the ideal aid to digesting vast quantities of festive goodness, the Christmas pop album is the better soundtrack to the decking, adorning and general titivating of halls.

Listening and, certainly in my case, shimmying to the Christmas classics is rather like pulling on an old favoured jumper. It offers the phrase “Oh I forgot about this one!” along with comforting nostalgic recollections and great value for money.

One simply does not grow tired of Slade, Band Aid or Macca (whom Dad and Kate saw last night and said was sensational BUT didn’t play ‘Wonderful Christmastime’, thus losing a few brownie points with me) jingling their bells. Like a Santa outfit, they are timeless.

This is not, however, the case for all yuletide yodels. Mariah Carey’s ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’ makes me want to vom into my Santa hat. This is mostly down to it encouraging couples to canoodle in public. Nasty.

As for “Lonely This Christmas’ (without you to hold), I will be avoiding this song during Christmas 2011 if I’m going to avoid bawling into my pillow.

And what of ‘A Fairytale in New York’ and ‘The Power of Love?’ How are these in any way festive? They don’t mention babies in barns, snowy winter wonderlands or the charming innocence of children.

They instead taunt festive listeners with lyrics like “You’re an old slut on junk,” and “the hooded claw, Keep the vampires from your door.”

And a very Merry Christmas to you too...

Some of our favourite festive anthems do offer some perverse and, frankly, questionable lyrics.

Santa Claus is Coming to Town’ presents a rather ominous old Saint Nick, who lurks in the corner of rooms, judging those he casts his eye over, e.g. "He sees you when you're sleeping, He knows when you're awake, He knows if you've been bad or good, So be good for goodness sake!” Yikes!

Johnny Mathis, on the other hand, steals phrases from traditional carols in ‘When a Child is Born’. A bit of a cop-out really. And factually inaccurate.

I refer, in particular, to ‘Jesus Christ our Saviour was born on Christmas Day.’

Aside from the fact that theologians have established that the baby Jesus was born in Spring rather than the bleak mid-winter, it is no happy coincidence that Mary went into a convenient labour on an existing festival day. Whether religious or not, one cannot disagree that Christmas is celebrated because of the baby Jesus. He was not born on Christmas day, Christmas was born on his day of birth. Durgh.

The Beach Boys’ ‘Little Saint Nick,’ on the other hand, offers further gems of lyrical poetry after the classic “Ba ba ba ba Barbara Ann.’

Specifically, “Christmas comes this time each year.”

Well, boys, thank you for this insightful exploration of the true meaning of Christmas. Your profound meditations on this iconic holiday is palpably enlightening while subtly explaining the reason for Christmas trees being erected worldwide.

Nothing gets by you, boys.

Pretenders join the Beach Boys in obvious examinations about the holiday, pointing out “2000 miles is very far”.

And yet, like that old jumper, with its pulled threads, back-of-drawer smell and questionable stain, we accept these classics for what they are - Christmas corkers. As cringe as Christmas cracker jokes and just as much of the festive tradition.