Helen Moorhouse: Christmas was better when someone else did all the hard work
SO when does it officially end, then? When do you ask folk how they "got over it"? Is it now or was it December 27? When do the reviews of the year start in earnest? When you're finally gazing at the carcass of a large bird that you've grown to know intimately and wondering "brown or black bin"? When there's no earthly chance of unearthing a caramel cup?
For something that's been hanging around for a solid two months or more, begging to start, Christmas seems to get itself done and dusted awful fast, all the same.
One second it's all glory to the newborn king and the good plates. And the next? You're suddenly aware that something's happened but you were in the kitchen, and so you're not too sure when and at what exact point your pants stopped fitting. And somehow you've managed to bypass that elusive, magical Christmas moment that we truly yearn for in our hearts. The promised – mythical – putting up of the feet.