Christmas on a budget

 My editor had announced that we had a budget for Christmas as she flounced into the office wearing a green dress with ruffles that -- I hope -- was supposed to make her look like a Christmas tree.  The brown leggings certainly contributed to the effect by making her seem like she had a knobbly, bulbous trunk, but overall it all seemed a bit try-hard and while I found it more to be pitied than laughed-at, there were certainly smirks around the office after she left.

"You mean for the Christmas party?" I said.  Being the food-and-drink correspondent I was probably the only person who was actively hating the Christmas party.  Not only was I obliged to attend, but I would be working as the paper required me to review the party and would publish the article.  I'd tried, one year, reviewing it accurately and had been bullied into coming into the office on Boxing Day to rewrite it until I "got it right" so I was resigned to my fate.

"No, for the whole of Christmas," she chirruped like a budgie that's got into its owner's meth supply.

"That dress better not be part of it!" came a sharp-toned comment from somewhere deep in the office.  I stared at my desk and pretended that I'd not seen who said it while my editor glared menacingly around the room.

"We can increase the budget if we let someone go," she said.  "Though that would be a shame, just before Christmas.  And this dress, for those of you taking such an interest, is for the charity auction this afternoon."

"We'll be sorry to see you go," I said sincerely.  She was still hunting for her earlier critic and missed my implication.

"In fact," she said, her scowl relaxing as she gave up on hunting insultors, "we are going to have a theme week" -- everyone groaned in unison -- "of Christmas on a Budget this year.  We're going to run a series of articles on regifting, handmaking gifts from things you might otherwise throw out, cutting down on gift lists without offending people, and Christmas dinner on a budget!"  She ended triumphantly and smiled at me.  I frowned back.

"You want me to write recipes?" I asked.  I'd tried once; the Blonde had agreed to take notes and by the time we'd finished trying to make scones we had three empty bottles of London-sourced gin and a recipe that began (and ended) "Take a bottle of gin."  We might have eaten a block of butter, too.

"No," she said.  "But there are several greasy-spoons that are offering a budget Christmas lunch that you should review.  I've emailed you the details."

I hesitated.  This was much more my remit than writing recipes, but I've pretty much reviewed exactly one not-high-end restaurant in my life, and it didn't go well.  Comparing it with L'Escargot and The Fat Duck was, in hind-sight, not a good choice, but even so my observation that the food I'd been served was normally what I'd expect the protein I usually received to have been fed on was both accurate and unflattering.

"Theme week," sang my editor, and flounced into her office.

I opened my email, ignoring the swell of conversation about how flammable my editor's dress looked, and viewed the list she'd sent me with interest.  Even though it seemed faintly wrong, the idea of turning a full English Breakfast into a substitute Christmas lunch had a certain je ne sais quoi about it and the first 'menu' that suggested that bubble-and-squeak was a perfect replacement for brussels sprouts fried in bacon fat wasn't that outlandish.  I wrote the address down and noted that it closed before I'd normally start getting dressed for dinner.  Maybe it woudl have to be lunch after all.

There was no way I could think of that I'd get the Blonde to accompany me on this though.