Look, you can have too much of a good thing. It’s not that I don’t enjoy yom tov — the food, the family, the obscure traditions like eating in wooden huts or waving palm fronds — but after four consecutive weeks of festivities, interspersed with a fair few shabbats, I tend to feel like a tennis pro at the end of the Open season. Only more in need of a diet.
The fact is, this time of year is never less than challenging for anyone whose Judaism coexists with their secular identity. As a kid, it’s great. Extra days off school, Simchat Torah sweets. You don’t even have to fast on Yom Kippur.
But as an adult, if you are observant, the sweetness of this supposedly honeyed period tends to wear off some time around the 13th piece of challah and honey.
You kick off Rosh Hashanah on a high, uplifted by the shofar and the delight at being reunited with the folk you only ever see on those days, primed for the small talk (yes, the kids have got so big, yes, it’s lovely not to see anyone wearing a mask, ad infinitum).
You’re dressed to the nines in new clothes, you feel fresh and rested after the summer holidays.
But by Shemini Atseret, the glow is long gone.
All that additional cooking (and eating); barely one festive meal finished before the next one must be prepared.
So much shul. Condensed weeks with barely enough time to get necessary tasks done before the next bout of Shabbat or yom tov. Schools effectively operating part time (this year made worse by the additional Monday Bank Holiday, meaning almost no full weeks in the entire half term).
And on the horizon, a bleak stretch of nothingness until Chanukah. I can’t be the only one who wishes our chagim were more evenly distributed.
There’s one thing that makes it less of a slog, though, and it’s those halcyon years when yom tov falls on a weekend. When you light not just festive candles but Friday night ones too, and your kids’ routines remain intact. When the only day off from work or school is a solitary Monday. When you can use your precious annual leave for — who’d have thunk it? — holiday.
There are downsides, of course. No shofar on first day Rosh Hashanah, a delayed tashlich. You can’t shake your lulav on Shabbat, and you lose weekends for a month. But any drawbacks are minimal, set against the joy of a blessedly uninterrupted September. Well, let me be the bearer of good news. Next year is indeed that holy grail.
For the first time since 2009, Rosh Hashanah falls over Shabbat and Sunday.
After years in the wilderness, we Jews will be like our forefathers, reaching a land of milk, honey cake and normal weeks. Let the shofar sound.
I’d say that we are long overdue such a yom tov treat.
Remember 2009? When David Cameron was still the future, when Spurs reliably finished the season below Arsenal, and the Great British Bake Off hadn’t even aired yet. There was no Deliveroo, Uber was just a baby, and Trump was nothing more than a reality television star.
It’s not just about convenience, it’s about what convenience does, which is enable British life to better coexist with Jewish life.
That matters. For Judaism to thrive down the generations, the balance needs to tip in favour of joy rather than burden. Of course, the most devout will do it anyway. But it being easier to observe the festivals is not nothing.
Because, as I said, you can have too much of a good thing (don’t even get me started about second day yom tov in the diaspora).
I know I will appreciate yom tov so much more in 2023 (and in 2026 too — I’ve Googled so you don’t have to).
Rather than resenting the incursion into my normal routine, I’ll welcome those special, magical weekends, and the deliciousness of having a whole week to recharge.
Normal life, with some extra Jewish sparkle. Shana tova, and next year on a Saturday.
