Mrs Middle England: Keeping Hope Afloat
by David Palethorpe
While Mr Middle England spends winter muttering darkly about the so-called “festive season,” his long-suffering wife takes an entirely different approach.
Mrs Middle England has learned — over several decades of conjugal endurance — that the only way to survive November is to simply get on with it.
Christmas, after all, will not organise itself, no matter how loudly her husband insists it ought to be “streamlined,” “rationalised,” or ideally “cancelled altogether.”
So, as the Old Gimmer sits in the Welly lamenting the state of the world, muttering about commercialism, and inventing new reasons to loathe tinsel, Mrs Middle England is quietly performing seasonal triage.
Cards? Sorted.
Presents?
Bought early and hidden even earlier.
Turkey?
Ordered from Fermoy’s — certainly not from the cut-price supplier her husband once suggested as “a perfectly viable option.”
Tree?
Chosen for her, not for him — because if he had his way they’d make do with the dusty 1970s artificial horror lurking in the loft.
Food?
Copious amounts stored away with the annual warning,
“Don’t touch that it’s for Christmas”
None of this requires discussion with Mr Middle England.
She has long discovered that trying to involve him only results in one of three outcomes:
- A lecture about unnecessary expenditure,
- A monologue on how Christmas “was better when rationing kept things sensible,” or
- A closed-mouth yawn of such theatrical misery it could depress a snowman.
She ignores all three with the ease of a seasoned professional.
Occasionally, she’ll ask his opinion on something minor — a safe, harmless, zero-risk question such as “Red or gold ribbon?” — just to maintain the illusion of domestic democracy.
He’ll grumble something non-committal, she’ll do what she intended anyway, and peace will be restored.
And yet, despite his Eeyore-ish gloom, Mrs Middle England knows his seasonal misery is, in its own way, part of the tradition.
She suspects — though she’d never say it aloud — that if he ever embraced Christmas wholeheartedly, the shock might actually kill him.
So she lets him grumble, she lets him sigh, she lets him hold court at the Con Club about the decline of civilisation.
Meanwhile, at home, she keeps Christmas afloat with the calm efficiency of a woman who knows that cheerfulness, like fairy lights, works best when someone sensible plugs it in.
She will, of course, allow him one ceremonial task on Christmas Eve: the lighting of the outdoor reindeer.
He will complain.
He will yawn.
He will mutter about the electricity bill.
And she will smile — because deep down she knows the truth:
That with only six weeks to go,
Without Mrs Middle England, Christmas would collapse.
Without Mr Middle England, it wouldn’t be half as funny.
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