How long has ‘Twixtmas’ been a thing? I see from the Collins dictionary that this is a new word suggestion, currently under review and awaiting approval.
I feel late to the Twixtmas party. If I’d known it was being bandied about willy nilly I’d have been wishing everybody in the pub on Wednesday night a ‘Happy Twixtmas’ or bemoaning my return to work ‘during Twixtmas’.
And now Twixtmas is over! It’s the end of December and I’ve got the major New Year’s Eve decisions to make; namely:
- What the bloody hell am I going to wear tonight that will disguise the Michael Ball-style paunch I’ve developed over the past week?
and
2. Would it be safer to purchase the services of a dog sitter rather than leave my beloved furred son in the care of the first and second sons whose boundaries of danger may differ radically from my own?
I’ve read some very sad stories on Twitter about lost dogs recently.
Reading sad stories on Twitter about lost dogs is a sure sign of Twixtmas. I’m currently following the ongoing drama of a sandy coloured lurcher missing in Ayrshire.
Each day since she bolted I’ve checked Twitter for updates. Each day I’ve informed my husband of the latest sightings and the strategies of the search team.
He is not interested and continues reading match reports. Gosh, there’s an awful lot of football on during Twixtmas.
At any other point in the year I do not have time to worry about other people’s dogs. At any other point in the year I am obliged to tackle the Alpine landscape that is my Stuff To Do.
At the lower levels there are the dull, quotidian jobs like ironing (honestly, it’s a pain but clothes do look better for it), changing bed linen and de-scaling appliances.
At mid level we’re talking about personal admin – paying bills so we aren’t evicted from the house, renewing car insurance, filling in the family wall planner with events, that sort of thing. (My Twixtmas achievement? Booking in a man to replace our leccy meter. I hasten to add, they called me, I didn’t call them. But it still counts, right?)
And at the highest altitudes there’s the stuff that makes you actually sick and dizzy. Like sorting accounts, scheduling payments to HMRC and writing that hour long show I’m booked to take to a number of regional festivals in 2018…
But at Twixtmas I left it all behind. I turned my back on that mountain range and narrowed my focus to the twelve or so feet between the sofa and the TV. Snuggling up to the dog with a succession of drinks to hand and Netflix on the box has been a joy. I hardly know which day it is.
But I know January is close. How? The following are sure signs:
- My sink is blocked with debris from an 18lb turkey, some rogue spaghetti and silver table confetti. I have had to make an emergency trip to the supermarket for drain cleaner.
- The bottle of cognac which was full last Saturday has approx 15ml left. (That succession of drinks I was talking about? Lots of cognac, simple syrup, lemon juice and prosecco.)
- There are jeans in my wardrobe it won’t be worth my trying on until mid February at the earliest.
- All the socks and pants bought as Christmas gifts are now in the laundry hamper awaiting their first wash.
- The washing machine is smiling and glowing with wellbeing from its holiday.
- The dog has started turning his nose up at turkey.
- The words ‘Dry January’ are appearing on Facebook. (Take it from a part-time weather girl, January is traditionally one of the wettest months of the year. Mother Nature leads by example in my book.)
- I haven’t been awarded an OBE. Again.
You’ll have your own ways of knowing January looms. Feel free to share them below.
Wishing you a very happy new year. And let’s hope that bloody lurcher comes home before my tax return is due.
