It’s January 5th, twelfth night, so Christmas is over officially. Anyone with the halls still decked should shake a leg.

In tribute to Sir Toby Belch – the bon viveur character in Shakespeare’s play named for the occasion – and in the interests of freeing up fridge space for fresh fruit, veg and herbs… in a bit… we celebrate by frying up the last of the Christmas pudding.

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Yes, of COURSE it’s being reheated in butter.

The puddin’ was handmade lovingly by J’s dad. A true artist! We’re consuming it with a selection of leftover augmented dairy products (brandy butter, whisky & honey cream, brandy cream…)

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Despite the suggested consumption dates on the packaging, the alcohol content has had an impressive preservative effect. (That second clause is  what I expect my coroner’s report to say.)

Verdict… Yummers!

“I am sure care’s an enemy to life.”

If you celebrated Christmas with decorations, tradition has it that you are supposed to have taken them all down by now.

Twelfth Night, whenever you think it should be marked (indeed, should you think this), has passed. Here, the decorations are safely boxed until later in the year, when the festive cycle of tinselly joy will begin anew – possibly sometime in August depending on where one shops.

Taking down the cards, we had a dewy-eyed re-read of the lovely wishes from those of our pals who like to still indulge in a stamp. It can be really hard to find suitable cards, though. The wording on this one struck us as a bit odd. A bit… well, passive?

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“It’s hoped…”? Words are very rascals, as Feste the Jester suggests(-ah)!

Fortunately, a perfectly happy Christmas was had. That’s it over officially now, though. Back on your heads…