You shan't go to the ball

Back in the Old Days (the ones before LittleBear, and sleep deprivation, and the evaporation of a social life) I used to make a habit of holding a mulled-wine and mince pie party before Christmas. I would make vast quantities of pies and biscuits and mince pies and buy enough cheese to sink a battleship, and mull enough wine to drown a camel. Friends would arrive from near and far, and we would stay up too late and feel ropey in the morning.

Last year, I managed to return to something along those lines, and it was fun - not only to regain some semblance of Life As It Used To Be, but also just to eat and drink and be merry. Though I confess, I was looking at my watch anxiously as it passed midnight, and wondering whether child-free friends realised that it was past my bedtime...

Last year I was clearly feeling brave and bold, because I didn't just have a mulled-wine and mince pie party, I held a children's party in the afternoon as well so that friends who were deficient in the baby-sitter department could also come out and eat cheese*.

And, generally speaking, I recall last year's events with fondness. I think people enjoyed it. I enjoyed it. LittleBear and his friends enjoyed it and LittleBear went to bed and to sleep without being too perturbed by a houseful of people.

So, in the spirit of festive fun, I'd been vaguely planning to do something similar this year. And then, last night, while wallowing in self-pity as I struggled to eat, drink, talk or sleep without excruciating pain due to the massive ulcer on the side of my tongue, I found another ulcer developing under my top lip. And I threw the whole idea of a party in the bin.

One mouth ulcer and the whole party is cancelled?

Surely that's some kind of over-reaction?

It's really not, honest. Mouth ulcers in my life are symptomatic of being stretched to breaking point, of my immune system being on the point of utter collapse, of the candle having been burnt at too many ends. The combination of LittleBear's birthday and party (and cake), weathering the storm of chickenpox, drowning under a tidal wave of work, trying to get ready for Christmas, and rashly arranging a weekend in London with LittleBear in four days time** has left me with only one possible day on which to hold a party before Christmas. And to be honest, if I only have one free day between now and Christmas, I suspect I will find there are a lot of other things I need to be doing on that day.

And I feel sad, and a bit crap, but in possession of just enough self awareness to remind myself that not holding a party will not result in the immediate and instant evaporation of all my friends. Because, being inclined that way, I do assume that I have to do things for my friends for them to like me. If I don't feed them, they might leave me...

So, this year, I am sorry to say, there will be no Christmas party, and PhysicsBear shall not go to the ball.

On the other hand, last year's "Christmas" party didn't actually happen until 4th February, so there's hope yet for us all to enjoy a festival of cheese.
 



* Yes, cheese always features prominently.

** That's the sound of me panicking.