Fruitcake

I've just had to nip out and get some more brandy for the Christmas cake. It’s very odd but I’d have sworn there was half a bottle left in the cupboard. It must have been all those hot toddies I’ve been drinking. I’m still fluey, you see, so I’ve been dosing myself every evening although to tell you the truth, they don’t seem to be working very well. I sleep like a top but for some reason I wake up with the most excruciating headache…

Trying to explain the concept of Christmas cake – or Christmas pudding – to the average French person is like trying to explain quantum physics to…well, er…me.
“You mean, you make it two months before Christmas?” they ask in disbelief, staring at the cake that I have spent hours decorating to look like a little piece of snow-covered England complete with church, plastic pine tree, Father Christmas on a sleigh and bits of grossly-out-of-proportion giant holly. The kitchen table fair sags beneath the weight of it: they smile politely. Then I start to explain about suet and mincemeat and I know I’ve lost them…

I've made a much smaller cake this year. I’m the only one who ever eats it anyway, sitting here alone surrounded by the debris of Christmas Day, with a paper hat sliding off the back of my head, a dreamy smile on my face and that Slade song playing. No wonder my children think I’m the fruitcake…