By PETER SINCLAIR
I was at a birthday party recently where the wife of an editorial colleague was facing the fact, in a teeth-gritted kind of way, that she had reached the prime of her life (i.e. some 15 years younger than me).
The thing about getting to my age is that
you can be in a room full of famous people and not be certain what any one of them is famous for. This invites the reckless gambit: "And what do you do, actually?" only to realise an instant too late, as her smile shifts perhaps a millimetre, that you've addressed a celebrated anchorperson adored by at least half the nation, according to recent surveys.
For it's party-time, dammit. These days the season to be jolly seems to start in October and run non-stop through January. No sooner have we finished celebrating diwali, the Hindu Feast of Lights in late October (I hope you lit a candle to illuminate the footsteps of Lakshmi, the goddess of prosperity) than we're asked to plunge into the rigours of Ramadan.
Be especially careful at this time, for all your prayer and fasting can be undone merely by telling the tiniest of fibs.
Just bite your tongue until Id-al-Fitr (the Feast of Fast-Breaking) on January 4, when you can once again eat too much, drink too much and badmouth your rellies in the usual way.
But the austerities of Ramadan are nothing compared to the approaching nightmare of Christmas, that juggernaut of good cheer and reckless over-consumption.
Already, to despairing cries of "Where did the year go?" the date of the office party is appearing ominously on company notice-boards; that dread function combining alcohol, indiscretion and ill-advised party behaviour — or worse, the office Christmas barbie, which includes all of the above plus carbonised protein and probably an unseasonal downpour.
As for planning one's own Christmas festivities, it doesn't bear thinking about. Readers with large families might consider the desperate expedient of getting the kids to do it (When Christmas Cooks Are Children).
The Sleuth is planning to take refuge in numbness — about half a gallon of Yuletide's chief glory, posset, the hot and comforting original version of egg-nog.
But wait — as vultures peck at your liver and your brain turns to cottage cheese — there's more: New Year.
This is the oldest of holidays, the most strenuous festivity of all, so I hope you kept something in reserve.
For the "Mother of All Hogmanays" on the net, the place to go is definitely Edinburgh; although the amorous may fancy Germany's silvester, where it's compulsory to kiss as many strangers as possible regardless of gender.
And then ... oh no! Here comes the Chinese New Year only three weeks later, when the Year of the Serpent wriggles in ...
The Sleuth says: aspirin, or the original Hair of the Dog (single whisky, double cream and a tablespoon of honey)? The choice is yours ...
Links:
Lakshmi
Ramadan
Id-al-Fitr
Recipes for Ramadan
Id al-Fitr and Ramadan
Christmas Parties
BBQ Food
When Christmas Cooks Are Children
Sack Posset
Egg-Nog
Hogmanay
Silvester
Year of the Serpent
E-mail: petersinclair@email.com
By PETER SINCLAIR
I was at a birthday party recently where the wife of an editorial colleague was facing the fact, in a teeth-gritted kind of way, that she had reached the prime of her life (i.e. some 15 years younger than me).
The thing about getting to my age is that
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