Hell hath no fury like an Elul Jew

The Jewish year offers something for everyone. Matza lovers rejoice come Pesach, wannabe vegetarians come into their own over the “Nine Milk Days”, while Jewish handymen count down with glee to the moment they can unpack the hammer and nails for sukkah-building.

None of these, however, compare a jot with the Elul people. And as luck – or divine irony – would have it, I’m married to one. For the past 30-something years.

Elul people are a breed apart. They derive no pleasure from the month in the conventional sense, no crunchy matza, no cheesecakes, no carpentry projects. Instead, they relish the absence of enjoyment. For them, Elul isn’t a time of laughter or indulgence, but of furrowed brows, sombre reflection, and the sudden urge to remind everyone else that “the king is in the field”.

You’ll recognise an Elul person immediately. They sigh audibly at inappropriate moments. They drop hints that you should perhaps be “taking things more seriously”. They listen to shofar blowings with the same enthusiasm that normal people reserve for Coldplay concerts. They will never say, “Let’s grab a drink,” but they will absolutely suggest a deep dive into vidui (confession prayers) while you’re still digesting your breakfast oats.

For me, the soundtrack of Elul isn’t the shofar blast at shacharit, but a steady refrain I hear daily, “Howard, it’s Elul.” It comes when I am about to repeat something devastatingly interesting, in lurid detail. When I skewer someone with harsh words. Or when I watch Netflix on my phone instead of opening a sefer. Three simple words, “Howard, it’s Elul” in equal parts: a warning, a reminder, and a spiritual cattle prod. If I had the musical talent, I’d release it as a remix and put it on Spotify. (Not that I’d be allowed to dance to it. Because, well, Elul.)

Living with an Elul person means that from the first day of the month, the atmosphere in your home shifts. Where others might be planning a spring getaway, Elul folk are plotting spiritual stock-takes. Shopping lists for Rosh Hashanah meals are quickly replaced with soul-accounting spreadsheets. The home hums with the constant low-grade vibration of repentance.

And yet, there’s something admirable, even enviable, about them. While the rest of us stumble toward the high holy days, clutching honey cakes and hoping for the best, Elul Jews arrive prepared. Spiritually gym-hardened, spiritually cross-fit, they’ve been training for this all year. They’ve already checked their moral cholesterol, repented for things you haven’t even thought of yet, and are polishing their shofars like Olympic athletes polishing their gold medals.

Meanwhile, the rest of us are still wondering whether “offending a Twitter bot” counts as a sin worth mentioning.

So here’s to the Elul Jews: may they continue to brood, repent, and gently terrify the rest of us into spiritual shape. As for me, after three decades of marriage, I’ve learned the secret. When my wife reminds me that “Elul is a time for serious introspection,” I nod gravely, and then quietly make myself another coffee. With full cream milk. Which, if you ask her, is probably another thing I’ll need to repent for.