The Feasting Farce.

It was a splendid Christmas lunch, yes indeed. (Damn, I’m doing the Welsh thing again. I think the Welshman is about three generations back on my ancestral line. Or it might have been a Welsh woman; things are a bit confused on my mother’s side.) It was so splendid, in fact, that I felt the need to go for a daytime walk – along Church Lane (the quietest and best of the lanes in this area,) across two fields, over two gates, and back along Mill Lane.

The thing is, though, it was no bigger than any normal main meal (apart from the addition of a few roast potatoes.) What precipitated the perceived need to walk off a few calories was the extra thick double cream I had with the Christmas pudding. And this is what I don’t understand.

Why is it that people find it obligatory to make the main Christmas meal at least 50% bigger than a regular main meal? And then, having done that, they feel further obliged to stuff themselves silly with mince pies, Christmas cake, stollen, chocolates, and heaven knows what else, until they’re bursting at the seams, horribly uncomfortable and very nearly immobile. Where’s the pleasure in that?

It’s a good job I’m not a Viking or a mediaeval potentate. I just don’t understand the feasting mentality. I remember being told that the Romans used to eat and eat until they were stuffed to the gunwales, and then force themselves to vomit in order to make room for some more! What a silly way to carry on. Bulimia has a certain (if unfortunate) logic to it, but the Roman habit is just plain daft.

JJ is being boring again, isn’t he?

No, he isn't. He just doesn’t do things he’s supposed to do merely because he’s supposed to do them.