The Midults’ guide to… Easter Annabel Rivkin & Em­i­lie Mcmeekan

The Daily Telegraph - Telegraph Magazine - - Wildlife -

EASTER. Not quite Christ­mas but dis­ori­en­tat­ing none­the­less. And some­how a marker of where we are in life. That odd oa­sis of four days. We’ve had many, many Easters, each with a slightly dif­fer­ent flavour. And here we are, in the mid­dle of another one. Oof. What kind of Easter are you hav­ing? Is it…


It all starts on Bad Fri­day with a Bellini. Just a teeny, mostly juice Bellini. Or seven. Seven? Seven be­fore the wine at lunch. And that is just a pre­cur­sor to the tequila. Satur­day’s hang­over has to be swiftly reme­died with a Bloody Mary and lunch is lamb, which means red, and din­ner is... for­got­ten, which means vodka. Sun­day is a holy day so… Holy cider. Out of re­spect. On Mon­day morn­ing you go to hos­pi­tal.


Share all the eggs. Let them have eggs. Choco­late bun­nies are for the many, not the few. So yes let’s take the treats from his pile, and hers, too. Who cares if they’ve spent ages col­lect­ing their choco­late? It’s about egg-ual­ity now.


You can no longer see any­thing with­out a fem­i­nist fil­ter. Why do you have to talk about this Je­sus guy all the time? It’s all men, men, men, isn’t it? Where are the women in the Easter nar­ra­tive? There’s only Mary Mag­da­lene and, well… You keep com­pul­sively yelling, ‘Time’s up!’ dur­ing the egg hunt. Let’s smash the egg pa­tri­archy.


There are egg-stud­ded wreaths on ev­ery door and each ta­ble set­ting has been planned. No one can find their fork for tiny, plastic, ma­raud­ing Easter chicks and hand­made birds’ nests full of mar­bled eggs. Even the toast at break­fast is ap­pre­hended to be stuffed into hand­wo­ven pas­tel bas­kets. You’ve taken to wear­ing one of those fussy lower-body aprons over a tea dress and you may have a rib­bon in your hair. Ev­ery­one else is mis­er­able.


The Easter tummy is an amaz­ing thing that mirac­u­lously ex­pands, so you can just keep go­ing. Lit­tle smoked sal­mon-y things on pan­cake-y mouth­fuls. Roast ev­ery­thing and choco­late crois­sants and hot choco­late and boxes of choco­late and eggs, eggs, eggs. Posh ones, cheap ones, vast ones, and some­one brought fudge and you have a thing for fudge. This is why foie gras is an abom­i­na­tion. You’re ba­si­cally force-feed­ing your­self and you DON’T KNOW WHY.


You’re over it. So over it. Over ev­ery­one. You feel fat and sad. You hate your clothes and your job and why is spring so de­press­ing? And if God ex­ists then why is he let­ting all the ter­ri­ble in­jus­tices hap­pen? You loathe hot cross buns and you had a par­tic­u­larly sear­ing ther­apy ses­sion on Maundy Thurs­day that was all about your mother. If there was an Over-easter Anony­mous helpline, you’d be call­ing it. As it is, you just stay in bed. Why is Easter telly so rub­bish?


Time to roll up your sleeves and spend four days re­mod­elling the house and the gar­den. Start­ing with the kitchen and sort­ing out the drawer. Take ev­ery­thing out: all the Mex­i­can pe­sos, 25 AAA bat­ter­ies, some twine and a trowel. Which re­minds you of the flower bed that you have been want­ing to dig for ages. Earth ev­ery­where – noth­ing so grat­i­fy­ing as a bit of Easter gardening. Bored with that? Well, you can fix the wonky shelf in the hall. Re­move all the post and keys and sin­gle gloves and bro­ken sat­navs – place on the floor. Re­move shelf. Now un­able to fix shelf. Any­one who comes over asks if you’ve been bur­gled. You call the handy man at 8.01 on Tues­day morn­ing.

Eggs, eggs, eggs. Posh ones, cheap ones, vast ones, and some­one brought fudge. You’re ba­si­cally force-feed­ing your­self and you DON’T KNOW WHY

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