If you had visited our small, South flat yesterday, you might have wondered where had got to.We have a spot of greenery and a handful of lights. But there’s no bird in the fridge to haunt every meal; no clamouring relatives to be entertained or present-high nippers to mollify; scant wrapping paper to recycle; nor a single Quality Street wrapper in evidence; and no — repeat no — annual angst.Instead, Terence and I spent our not‑so-big day doing very little, observing the handful of traditions we have forged over eight years together. We eat Terence’s now-famous nut roast. I’m the , but tradition has it that he cooks to for millennia of patriarchal oppression (and because I do more of it during the year).
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