If you’re reading this in loungewear, prone on the sofa surrounded by wilfully esoteric Christmas treats and only a hazy idea of what day it is, then congratulations: you have successfully segued into Twixmas.
This is that unique, safe space that comes but once a year, when all bets (phones and alerts) are off. Having previously run yourself ragged doing everything, you are now obliged to do nothing. The name comes from “betwixt”, meaning between, rather than the eponymous confectionery; the only similarity to the sweet is that Twixmas is about putting two fingers up to stress and the causes of stress.
It is a law of nature, if not physics, that from December 27 to 30, we collectively enter a wormhole in the fabric of the universe where the entire western world has full permission to hit pause. In Norway it’s known as Romjul, a time for “mindful mooching”, while the Germans refer to this magical interlude as “zwischen den Jahren” or “between the years”. But whatever you call it, the international consensus is that no boss, however demanding, seriously expects anyone to work from home.
No customer, however aerated, genuinely believes that their call will be answered. No parent in their right mind intends to cook – wasn’t it Mary Berry who said: “Let them eat selection boxes…”?
In the Twixmas twilight zone, the normal rules don’t tend to apply. Britain’s mothers shelve their five-a-day and now-brush-your-teeth hypervigilance in favour of laissez-faire languor and not giving a monkey’s about who said what and whose turn it is.
Sure, the kids might be upset the first year you go hiding in plain sight. I remember mine sobbing: “But I’m never allowed to stay up this late! Is this a trick? What have you done with my real Mummy?”
The following year, by way of some explanation, Santa brought them the DVD of Coraline, a deeply troubling animation about a girl with two sets of mothers inhabiting two parallel universes, one strung out tighter than a cheesewire, the other so laid back as to be menacing.
Because Twixmas is indeed a parallel universe. It is not only an antidote to the freneticism of Christmas, but also the very antithesis of Christmas, with all its emphasis on crippling generosity and mandated togetherness.
Is it any wonder, then, that after the orgy of wrapping paper and fizz, ancients snoring in armchairs and toddlers high on chocolate money, those of us in the Squeezed Middle long for deep, deep solitude? Not just self-care, but self-indulgence, too. The Joy of Twixmas is that it’s not about giving. It is simply about taking – all the time, space and leftovers that your heart desires.
Ideally at Woods Towers there will be brand new PJs, acres of luxuriant faux fur, fancy cheeses, cherry brandy, an unseemly amount of Netflix and hours engrossed in a slew of must-read books thoughtfully gifted to me by others – or indeed myself.
Now if this sort of R&R just sounds like a normal weekend, then you are probably a millennial or a man. I generalise, but with good reason.
