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The true meaning of Twixmas

It's the most magical time of the year again.

Yes, the liminal, soft-edged space between Christmas and New Year is here once more. It's almost as if calendars were a thing. And, once more, we get to see the wonders of the season, a million columnists writing the same column that they do every year: "how does any one know what day it is?" they chorus, ho ho "how can anyone one tell what time it is? I've had too much chocolate ha ha". It seems that over-consumption of food has a direct effect on one's ability to, I don't know, look at that supercomputer in your pocket which devotes an infinitesimal fraction of its power to displaying the date and the time at all times.

No, I don't have a lot of time for that particular trope, I understand it, I spent a pleasantly fuzzy day yesterday not doing a great deal, but, y'know, as an observation I feel it's somewhat run its course, even the Today programme was at it today (which, I appreciate, is very much my own fault for listening to the Today programme).

Not having much time for that trope is a product of not being able to live it. Hospitality being what it is a couple of days off is as good as it gets, I'll be back in the kitchen in a couple of hours. Not for me the formless week, a bewildering stumble through the odd social engagement, wine for breakfast and undoubted overuse of the phrase "cheese coma". Not that this is complaint, I do what I do because I enjoy it. When I finally get round to therapy, I think I'll be there a while.

But I do enjoy this time of year. There's something pleasingly low-stakes about it. We'll be busy, and logistically it's a bit of a nightmare as everybody's vagueness extends to it not occurring to anyone to book. Suppliers are a bit up and down and menus are something of a juggling act. Some folk are still in full-on Christmas Party mode and want the full shebang, many others just want a butty in between.  Crucially, though, hardly anyone's an arsehole. We get drifting bands of folks wandering in, just happy to be here "are you open?" they ask, as a busy waitress whisks past with a tray full of drinks. "Can we eat?"

I'm not sure why that should be. I've written here before about the once a year merchants who blight Christmas, Mother's Day and Valentine's with their inability to behave correctly in restaurants, but for some mysterious reason, that tap gets turned off around midnight on Christmas Eve. I appreciate that I may be making something of a hostage to fortune of myself here, but nearly everyone who walks through the door for the next few days will be markedly calmer. Maybe they genuinely are suffering from the Twixmas brain fog beloved of lazy columnists, maybe they're still in their *cough* cheese comas, possibly the formlessness of the week causes a nervous uncertainty which leads people to be less strident, but for whatever reason, it's normally a nice vibe on service.

Which is just as well, because the anything-goes atmosphere of this most malleable of weeks means I need to be a lot of things to a lot of people: a Christmas party place, a casual lunch place, we've got a wake in on Monday (!) and then turn into fine dining for NYE, all while keeping an eye on rolling into new menus for January. It's not boring, I'll give it that.

So I'm acutely aware what day it is, and what time it is, it's one of the weirdest, and yet most fun, times of the year. Merry Twixmas!

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