Backseat Teachers

While I ate my lunch today, I was astonished to hear the four hags on Loose Women discuss classroom management like they knew what they were talking about. And while I'm at it...the response in the papers and across TV media to the story about students putting their thumbs up instead of their hands has been nothing short of infuriating.

I don't know whether you know this or not, but teachers don't just make stuff up. A great deal of time during teacher training degrees is taken up with learning about classroom management. And let me tell you, classroom management is a science. Oh, of course, it didn't used to be. It used to be very black and white when kids knew that if they didn't behave, or if they spoke out of turn, or if they didn't engage, they would get the slipper or the cane or have a blackboard duster thrown at their head. It was easy then. It was easy when the teachers had all the power because they ruled through fear and loathing. But that, my liberal friends, is no longer the case and I'm not suggesting for a minute that it should be.

I'm pretty sure, and please correct me if I'm wrong, that those of you whinging and complaining and huffing and puffing in a 'how ridiculous' display of exasperation are pretty against going back to the Dickensian days of beating and battering. So, how about you let teachers i.e. the experts, get on with it?

Yes, raising hands in class has been around forever and it's never done any harm - so why change it? If we were to stick to that theory we'd still be washing kids' mouths out with soap, sending 14 year olds down the mine and washing our teeth with twigs. Raising hands in class does still work but in a lot of schools it can actually be very disruptive. With class sizes rising and rising (most primary school and secondary school classes are at 30+ these days) it's not very useful to have the majority of those kids waving their hands in the air, straining to be the one picked and combining their hands up with monotonous and persistent calls of, 'Miss!', 'Miss!', 'Miiiiiiiss!' which is basically shouting out with your hand in the air.

On top of that, we all know that in reality, there's probably only about 10 of those students that typically raise their hands. The rest sit there either,

a) wondering what's going on
b) fiddling around with something they're not supposed to be fiddling about with (but they can because they're hidden behind a sea of waving hands)
c) desperately hoping that no one picks them

Putting your hand up can be quite exposing. There are lots of children who may be much happier raising a thumb - who are you to say?

Hands in the air is a very out-of-date teaching method and more and more you find schools that are encouraging alternative methods. For example, and please tell me if you think this is crazy, but there are a lot of teachers using their classrooms to develop conversational skills in classes - skills such as turn taking for example. I know I've sat in training sessions, meetings etc., as an adult and managed to conduct conversations amongst large groups of people without having to raise our hands. Is it that unthinkable that we should try and teach our children to do the same thing? Thumbs up instead of hands up forces children to look around, to consider other people, to see whether someone else has something to say in a way that hands straight in the air doesn't.

And let's face it, kids need to be entertained. If I had a class full of over-excited primary school kids, desperate to please teacher in the first few weeks back I may try to come up with some original, engaging idea that avoided the whole straining hands and screams of 'Miss!'. The kids may actually be enjoying the challenge, they may even think it's quite fun. Heaven knows, any teacher can attest to the fact that kids are always eager to play the painful classroom game 'Thumbs Up Heads Down'. If you're not a teacher, you won't know what that means....which sort of nicely brings me back to my original point.

Those of you with no knowledge of the creativity and originality and thought that goes into managing a classroom full of children should really think twice before you criticise those who spend day in and day out trying to think of creative, original and thoughtful ways to educate your children. Perhaps if children were taught to respect teachers and education and rules and other people then teachers wouldn't need to keep inventing new and magical ways to keep children engaged. I wonder...how do we fix THAT problem?

The Rules of Engagement

So far, I’ve resisted writing a blog about weddings and all the preparations that go with it. I suppose this is for no other reason than I am certain I’ve got nothing new to say on the subject. You only have to type ‘wed’ into Google and already you’re inundated with a thousand pastel-coloured, shabby-chic styled links all promising to show you how to make your day the most romantic/stylish/grand (delete as appropriate). It’s only now, a mere three weeks away from the big day, that I wonder if perhaps there is something to say that maybe, just maybe, no one ever really wants to mention.

The fights.

Planning a wedding is the single most stressful thing you can do. Fact. I know that ‘moving house’ always sits rather regally at the top of those ‘The Most Stressful Things You Can Do’ lists but that’s only because they don’t want to admit that something that should be heartwarming, family-oriented and drowned in gushing love, could actually be so damn difficult at times. Even, the usually unflappable, darling-of-the-nation, Kate Middleton, apparently resorted to her old habit of smoking just to get through April and Kim Kardashian has come out in a rash! And I'm willing to bet it's all because of the fights.

I don’t care how close you are to your family. I don’t care how perfect your love is. I don’t care how secure you are in your relationship and how amenable you are on a daily basis. The simple fact is that planning a wedding is an exercise in diplomacy and peace negotiations on a scale similar to that required of world harmony. Everyone involved, I repeat EVERYONE, changes when faced with a wedding to plan. Parents, brides, grooms, in-laws, children, bridesmaids…everyone has an idea of what they want the wedding day to be like.

This transformation in people isn’t always a bad thing. Sometimes otherwise grumpy parents becomes balls of candy-floss in the face of taffeta, rose petals and bunting. Best men, who previously struggled to get themselves out of the house in the morning, suddenly turn into event organizers of the highest caliber. But mostly, people look at this once-in-a-lifetime event and decide that, for the first time, they’re going to stand their ground. And then the fights begin.

Initially it’s harmless. It may just be the odd throw away comment said in ‘jest’ that evaporates as quickly as it emerged leaving the echoed resonance of a very serious point flapping its wings behind it. It may be a gentle case of emotional blackmail coloured in those unmistakable passive-aggressive tones : “Well, darling, you know your grandma, who’s not very well at the moment, would be heartbroken if you didn’t get married in church.” Whatever it is, the initial incidents appear harmless, often so subtle, that you don’t even realize it’s happened at all.

But as the pressure builds so does the tension. People no longer bother with the veiled comments. It’s just said out loud. Gentle emotional blackmail becomes outright down and dirty: “Well, that was your grandma on the phone. She’s not coming unless you get married in her church, wearing her old dress. In fact, she'd rather die.” (Brides resist the urge to say they choose option B). Mothers decide to tell brides that they don’t think they’re marrying the right person three weeks before the wedding. Fathers refuse to wear what the rest of the bridal party are wearing, followed up with the ultimate power play: “…and darling, just remember who’s paying for this.”

Before I continue, I want to make clear, that these examples are not from my own experience of wedding planning…well, not all of them. They are, however, real-life experiences from friends who have already travelled this road.

But even all of this is nothing compared to the fights that weedle their way between you and your other half to be. The pressure of organizing the wedding, the financial hardships, the management of peace negotiations between two otherwise magnetically opposed families soon takes its toll. The bride worries about whether all this planning is going to come together on the day. She worries about whether everyone will be happy sitting where they are placed (they won’t be). She worries about whether everyone will have a good time. Do the bridesmaids hate their gowns? Have they chosen a venue too remote and difficult to get to? Will guests talk in muted whispers about the amount of money it’s cost them to get there? The groom worries about the enormity of the event. He wonders if they’ll ever be able to scrape back the savings afterwards. He worries about messing it up at all. He worries he can’t dance and isn’t that good at speeches. He worries about his father-in-law. He worries about his father. His mother. Her mother.

Because the simple fact is, you’re setting yourself up to upset a lot of people amidst an event that is defined by emotion, relationships, love, belonging and drama and as we all know in life…very few of these things are governed by logic, reason and rationality. With logic, reason and rationality already out of the window, it’s a difficult starting point.

The fights between the bride and the groom don’t manifest themselves in things regarding the wedding. You don’t argue about the seating plan, or the flowers or the speeches or outfits. The fights are secret spies sent out by the patron saint of marriage to give you the final test right up until that moment that you say ‘I do.’ You fight about staying out too late when normally it isn’t a problem. You fight about who has the car and who takes the tube when normally it’s a logical choice. You fight to defend family members that you don’t even, on a normal day, much like. The end of each fight ends with the same words: “This wedding is putting a lot of pressure on both of us”.

And it’s true. As far as wedding planning goes, we’ve probably had it fairly easy and the majority of it has been a fun and memorable process. The practical arrangements all fell, mostly, into place. There have been family members that have said the wrong thing, resisted certain ideas and, in some cases, been outright difficult. But just because it hasn’t been a bear fight from beginning to end doesn’t mean there isn’t any pressure.

But in the end, it comes down to this. Never once during a pre-wedding fight have either of us ever questioned whether we want to marry each other. The fact that the fighting has increased in the run up to the wedding hasn’t made us consider whether we should in fact be getting married. We are being tested and to be honest, we are passing with flying colours but bugger me, it’s exhausting.

So, it’s ok to hate this bit. It’s ok to get to a point where you wish you’d just booked the registry office down the road and got it over and done with. It’s ok to wonder if it was all worth the trouble. It’s ok to wonder if this is how it’s supposed to feel. And, it’s ok to fight…just as long as you get to make up afterwards.

Hen Do or Hen Don't?

I ask you one simple question: is it possible to have a 'classy' hen do? Is there anyone out there who has been to a 'classy' hen do? The reason I ask is that I'm just over 72 hours away from my very own pink, fluffy hen do and all I can hope is that it, well, isn't pink and fluffy.

It's not that I'm against the tradition. In fact, I'm really looking forward to it in all its girly glory but I can't help but worry about certain elements. I've been quite 'bridezilla' in my demands:

- NO strippers
- NO sashes
- NO overt willies

When I say no to 'strippers' I mean exactly that. I don't care if they don't go 'the whole way'; if a man who has been paid to remove any item of clothing comes within 15 feet of my party I will remove my fabulous four inch heels and run as fast as I can home. When I say no to 'sashes' it's really because pink won't go with my outfit and when I say no to 'overt willies' I am mainly referring to real life ones, ones that are attached to a headband or ones that are inflatable. I don't mind little ones made of ice to put in drinks and I don't really mind straws resembling funny boysticks but I definitely don't want people to look at me and have 'willy' be their first thought.

But, having said all of that (and really believing it), can you have a real hen party without those things? If you don't have those things, isn't it just another normal, drink-fuelled-girly-get-together? And if it is just that, is that ok? If I insist on a hen-cliche free day am I shooting myself in the traditional foot and doing myself out of what is effectively a rite of passage?

I did go to a PG hen party once. It was lovely. It was in the garden. The sun was shining. There were lots of girls in pretty dresses and a fair amount of champagne, but in the end it felt like a garden party rather than a memorable send-off into the wild lands of marriage. There was a Mr & Mrs Quiz but the most risque question was, "Who would Boris say was the best cook?" (names have been changed to protect identities). It did all feel a bit like I was babysitting a 12 year-old's birthday. We left the party feeling a little hard-done by. Alright, we didn't want a stripper to make us eat a banana covered in squeezy cream from between his buttocks, but we would have liked to watch the bride do it.

So I'm left in a dilemma. Do I hope that my hens have ignored all my requests and indulged in sashes, feathers and cocks on headbands? Or, do I forge ahead with my plans for a hen party that Audrey Hepburn would be proud of? Well, I suppose in the end, it doesn't really matter. It's all about giggling our way through the day and if it takes a few naughty words and some willy-shaped props then that's what it takes. Who cares what other people think? I'll get what I'm given...and knowing my sister, it will be a day to remember in one way or another.

Valentine's Day: Leave it or Love it?

So, Christmas is over. January is done. We’ve settled into a new year and after the festive mayhem we can, in February, finally relax. Right? Wrong. On February 14th Valentine will once again rear his saintly head and millions of people will go out and buy cards and maybe flowers and chocolates. Some may even splurge a load of cash on fancy restaurants. Men may flash their credit cards and buy expensive jewellery and maybe even diamond rings. Flower petals will be sprinkled in baths, a chorus of champagne corks will be heard popping across the nation, girls and boys will count their anonymous cards dropped lovingly into letterboxes all over the world and bedsprings will be put to the ultimate test.

I say this. I’m guessing at a lot of it as most of my friends won’t even admit to valuing the day at all. Ask anyone about Valentine’s Day and you’re met with stony-faced cynicism and well-rehearsed replies about how Valentine’s Day is nothing more than a money-making exercise designed to steal from the poor and give to the corporate rich. They’ll go on passionately about how you should show your love for someone everyday not just when Hallmark tells you to.

The non-believers are so vehement in their tirade against Valentine’s Day that I really believe they mean it. I’ve struggled to find anyone who’s willing to buy into it or who is, at least, willing to admit that they buy into it but some of them must be fibbing. There are 25 million people in the UK that send cards. Over half of the entire UK population spends approximately 1.3 billion British pounds in Valentine’s related way which means at least half of my friends are telling porkies. And, when you think about it, what actually is the problem with Valentine’s Day?

Ok, so I’ll admit it’s commercialized and it’s forced upon us and it gives people an opportunity to start ripping us off but isn’t that just like Christmas, and Easter and Halloween? I suspect that those who celebrate Valentine’s Day at the very least believe in love. When you compare this to those who celebrate Christmas, I’m not certain as many of them believe in God, a point perfectly illustrated when my two-year old nephew very sweetly said to the local vicar at the Christmas Eve carol service, “I know what Christmas is all about. It’s about the birth of Santa Claus.” Cue embarrassed shuffling from the family.

Does Valentine’s Day really deserve all this bullying? If you can, for one moment, ignore all those bellowing against it then think about this: I tell my fiancé I love him at least once a day but, in the midst of our hectic lives do I get the chance to make him feel special? Do I always have time to block out every other little mundane detail in our life and really make the time to sit down and exist completely in our own little love bubble? No, if I’m honest I don’t. Neither does he. And, neither does anyone else. Yes, we may have an opportunity to do it more than once a year, but if for some reason we don’t, then thank the lord for Valentine’s Day!

Look at it as a gift. It’s a day given to us to reassess. Just like Christmas day it provides us with an opportunity to stop and look at the person lying in bed next to them, or sitting opposite them at breakfast and remember all those feelings that existed between you before bills and mortgages and children and careers and everything else got in the way. Unlike Christmas day, it was excommunicated from the religious calendar back in 1969 so you don’t even have to feel any guilt or hypocrisy about sitting in a church (for the first time that year) celebrating it. You don’t need to spend a fortune on it; it doesn’t need to be grandiose and over-the-top because at the end of the day it’s about making time for each other and in this world that is something I get the chance to do less and less.

Its origins endear it to me even more. While it’s unclear exactly which early Christian martyr named Valentine (there were quite a few apparently) was being honoured with the celebration, it is clear that it was initially a religious festival. As with everything, the decline of religious belief means that hugely embroidered and often totally fabricated stories have emerged to underpin its non-religious existence. My favourite though is the tale that is most common in modern folklore.

Valentine was a priest in the days of Roman Emperor Claudius II. While everyone else was spilling blood in the coliseum, and building enormously successful roads and drainage systems, Valentine was working on a more benevolent and gentle cause: one in the name of love. Claudius II had decreed that all young men must remain single believing that a successful army and strong soldiers could not be made up of married men. While his logic is somewhat questionable, it was the law and that was that. But, behind the sexually frustrated scenes of the Roman army, Valentine was performing secret marriages allowing young men to marry their sweethearts. Now, I’d like to tell you that love won out and that Valentine showed Claudius II the error of his ways, but I’d be lying. As with most Roman stories, this one ends in jail and death but from his death sprung the beginnings of what we now know as Valentine’s Day – a celebration, all over the world, of the love that Valentine fought for. As to whether my tale is true…I don’t know. It could be a load of codswallop for all I know, but when has truth and logic ever mattered? Don’t even get me started on the Christmas story.

It would, of course, be impossible to discuss Valentine’s Day without discussing the impact it has on those without someone to share it with. In recent times, the day has developed it’s own alter ego and is known amongst those unattached as Singles Awareness Day. To my knowledge, those who are single deal with it in one of three ways. Either they gather all their friends together and have a good time regardless, or they sit in front of romantic movies and cry their socks off lamenting the lack of respective boy or girl or they ignore it altogether. To some extent it’s a case of greener grass. If there was a day celebrating singledom, you can bet your platinum wedding bands that attached people all over the world would secretly wish that they could be part of that, if only for the day.

At the end of the day, what harm does Valentine’s Day do? It’s not as if everyone dresses up as the undead and knocks on strangers’ doors begging for food only to mete out their own form of torturous punishment if, heaven forbid, they happen to have run out of sweets. It’s not also as if everyone ignores the lack of logic between chocolate bunnies and Jesus rising from the dead and eats themselves into a sugar-coloured stupor.

Valentine’s Day is simply about taking time to show someone that you love them. In some ways, that makes more sense to me than any other holiday. So, I’m standing up for Valentine’s Day and defending it in the face of cyncism and stoney-faced hostility. Plus, I’m a sucker for the underdog.

This article was first published in Sussex Local magazine www.sussexlocal.net

iLoveFilm.com

I love film. I'm not promoting a new way of approaching film rental, I'm simply stating a fact. I love film. One of my new freelance enterprises is through a company called FILMCLUB (www.filmclub.org) and if you have never heard of them then you must go and see what they are all about. Funded by the Department of Education, it works tirelessly to set up film clubs in schools across the nation. Why? Well, simply put (and I whole-heartedly agree with them) they believe that providing children with access to a wide range of films is one of the most mind-opening, knowledge-enhancing, tolerance-building things that we can do.

Somebody asked me that impossible-to-answer question today: what is your favourite film? Well, if you will imagine for a moment that I have about 10,000 children, it's a little like asking me which one is my favourite. First of all, it changes all the time. I'm a big fan of the Coen brothers but pushed to decide on just one? Fargo. No, The Big Lebowski. Wait, no, I meant, No Country for Old Men. You see? I can't answer that. And, if I left it at the Coen Brothers, I'd be lying. That's my "cool" answer. Don't get me wrong - I HEART the Coen Brothers but my less cool (and just as honest) answer would have to be Top Gun. I know that's not cool or hip or trendy or even slightly respectable but it's more to do with the associations that I attach to the film.

I remember watching Top Gun for the first time when I was about ten. I'd just been allowed to have a TV in my own room (ah, the luxury!) and it was on waaaaaay past my bed time. I had to turn the volume right down because I didn't want my parents to wake up, so I had to sit about three inches away from the screen trying to hear everything. I remember laughing at Goose's wicked one-liners, and 'fan-gurling' over Tom Cruise (that was before I knew any better) and thinking this was possibly, just about the best film I'd ever secretly seen. For the first sixty minutes, time stopped, the world ceased to turn and absolutely nothing else occurred beyond the four walls of my bedroom.

Then (excuse the spoiler) Goose died.

I think that was the first time in my life that I'd been emotionally torn apart by a film. From the moment the opening credits had rolled and Maverick had been told that if he didn't behave he'd, "be flying a plane full of rubber dog sh*t from Hong Kong" I had fallen in love with Goose. I think it was the first film I'd seen where they didn't all live. I had a Dorothy moment: I suddenly realised I wasn't in Disney anymore. I was heartbroken. I cried and cried and cried and then cried some more. I remember feeling real grief for about two days. It haunted me. Then my mum took me to see Philadelphia and I realised I wasn't going to last long in the cinematic cut-throat, heart-wrenching world unless I manned up a bit.

Since then favourite films have come and gone. In the early days, Labyrinth and The Princess Bride stood on a pedestal way to high for any other film to get near. Later, Teen Wolf and Major League took over and now? Well, that brings us back to where I started.

The point I wanted to make is the importance of films, all films in our lives. I was lucky enough to have a father who was passionate about films and who took me to the cinema and exposed me to films that I otherwise wouldn't have had the opportunity to see. I vividly remember him taking five minutes in the car park after watching a film at the movie theatre. He would write the title of the film in his diary and give it a certain amount of stars out of five depending on how good he thought it was. We would discuss what we liked and didn't like about it and then we would negotiate a star rating between us. What's even better is that I would bet both my legs that he's still got all those diaries. I'd love to go through them one day and see what we decided for various films. I'm pretty sure that my early choices (Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure or Mr. Nanny) didn't rate very highly on my Dad's scale. Now though, he steals all my DVDs and calls me after each one to dissect it.

And, at the heart of it, that's what FILMCLUB is all about. Even if kids don't have dads to take them to the cinema and get them talking about it afterwards and even if kids watch films they don't like, or that make them sad, FILMCLUB provides them with an opportunity to access those films. They can still go home and tell their parents all about it and that's a conversation that they otherwise wouldn't have with their parents. It's an opportunity for them to have opinions that aren't coloured by curriculums or exams or anything else. Films open their eyes to worlds, cultures and experiences that they may have only seen in their hazy dreams. Films make kids cry. But they also make them smile and laugh and stare in wonder at what the world has to offer us.

If you are a parent, or a teacher or an aunt or you simply know any kids...ask them if their school runs a FILMCLUB. If they don't direct them to the website www.filmclub.org or tell them to go to school and demand that their teachers go to the website. I promise you, they'll never look back.

Mission: Christmas

I realise that my Christmas blog has landed in your cyber inboxes a little later than expected. There is a reason for this. I need time. I need time to recover. I need time to sleep and to get home and to realise that, despite how it feels, life will eventually return to normal because Christmas in my family is an oxymoron. At times it is sweet and full of laughter and eternally heart warming but at other times it is stressful and shouty and overwhelmingly full on.

At this point in the year, when it’s still so close and so raw, I only remember the stressful, shouty and overwhelming bits. As the new year starts to gather speed and winter’s dawn starts to encroach on our peaceful summer of sleepiness, I forget all that and I happily put on my rose-tinted glasses and I remember only the sweet, laughter-filled, eternally warming moments and I genuinely can’t wait for December 25th. But at this point in the year I feel the total opposite.

And don’t let anyone tell you that it’s just one day. It’s never just one day. It starts in September. It’s generally my mum that kicks it all off. She’s the one that makes the first phone call and presses the big, red, metaphorically flashing button that says: START CHRISTMAS. And she asks the question that Jimmy and I dread: “What are you two doing for Christmas this year?” And so it begins.

“We have to talk about Christmas.” I say to Jimmy seriously.
“Well, at least she left it until September this time. Last year it was July.”
And he’s right. It was.

Once the negotiations and peace talks are out of the way and our eight-day Christmas timetable is finalized we try to relax. We need to. We need to reserve energy, to catch up on sleep, to take vitamins, to hydrate and to learn the art of packing a capsule wardrobe because with presents for three families, there isn’t a lot of space left in the car for such things as clothes.

And so, the ultimate Christmas challenge begins: 8 days, 1,034 miles, 6 different beds, 45 parcels, 4 counties, one suitcase, a dog, a cat and two adults who are guaranteed to fight like children the whole way around. The only other people who try to complete such a gruelling and exhausting journey are the ones doing it to raise thousands of pounds for charity with people cheering them on and patting them on the back and offering rousing speeches when you don’t think you can go one mile more. There is no such support team on Mission: Christmas.

The first stop this year was my parent’s house. We thought it would be nice to relax before the big day. We thought it would be nice to stay in one place for more than a night or two, to settle and chill out and prepare. And it was. For a while. Then Dad started hiding the remote control so that we couldn’t interfere with his TV viewing pleasure. I checked the Radio Times and realised he’d highlighted what he wanted to watch. The system was one of “first come, first served”. He, I was reliably informed, was the “first come”. I was more than welcome to highlight my TV choices for the festive period (in a different colour of course) and if it didn’t clash then I was more than welcome to watch it. If it did then his “first come” trumped any arguments of fairness that I tried to promote.

It was in the middle of one of these TV based arguments that it hit me. I simply said the words, “But Dad, that’s just not fair,” and I realized that no matter how old you get and how unfair your Dad is being, you can’t say those words in any context without sounding like a teenager. Immediately he saw his advantage, “Stop being so childish Cat.” And I was defeated. There was nothing I could say and that is the problem with going home as an adult. They won’t let you grow up and you can’t help but revert a little. You will always lose. So, I ate all of his Ferrero Rocher in a silent protest. And then I felt sick.

The big day finally came. I still have the mental capacity of a six year old and so I’m awake at 5am and because I’m at home and I have reverted to a teenager I know that I won’t last the day without getting over tired. There will be tears before bedtime. I try to sleep. I really do but in the end I give in and at about 7am I get up to discover my mother is a woman possessed. She’s drowning in mince pies and canapés and Christmas cake and turkey sauces and gravy and pigs in blankets and crackers and she’s only got half a head of rollers. I offer to help. She tells me the most helpful thing I can do is to stay out of her way. She’s not being mean. She’s probably right so I retreat to the living room where the only thing in the whole world to do is to stare at the presents under the tree that I won’t be able to open for hours. And hours. And hours.

(Remember at this point, I’m still straddling the mental capacity of a 6 year old and a teenager).

Jimmy finally wakes up. At 11am. And takes an hour to shower and change. Mum and Dad want everyone dressed for present opening. At our house, there’s none of this ‘presents in pyjamas’ idea that I’ve heard about and secretly dream of. Each of us has a pile of presents in front of us. Dad skips his turn a few times. He’s got loads of presents but he wants to be the one left with presents when the rest of us have all finished. Mum says she loves everything but I’m pretty sure she’ll exchange it and Jimmy is just pleased he got a remote control helicopter for Christmas. I don’t have very many presents, not after I opened most of them earlier.

Presents done and the second bottle of Champagne (well, fizzy wine) opened we patiently await the arrival of my brother and sister and their families. My Mum has figured this out by now. She tells them to arrive at 12pm knowing that they are always a least an hour late. When they defy all tradition and actually turn up on time she’s thrown into a catering-coloured frenzy. The canapés are accidentally burned, the meal won’t be ready for ages and there aren’t even any Ferrero Rocher to munch on because someone ate them all, but no one is admitting to it. We open more champagne and sit down for the second round of present opening.

The lunch is fabulous. It always is, apart from the pigs in blankets that are forgotten about and left in the Aga to be cremated. Last year it was the Yorkshire Puddings. Next year it will be something else but rest assured, something will always be forgotten. We munch our way through a veritable feast of outstanding food – the fruits of my mother’s kitchen-based nervous breakdown – and wash it down with wine and merriment. We pull crackers and tell rubbish jokes, and pick on Dad a little for the food that he’s left in his moustache. My two-year-old nephew keeps us highly amused with his funny sayings and cute face. We tell everyone we love them and for about two hours we totally forget about the TV arguments and the presents that we’ll exchange and the burned canapés and the stolen Ferrero Rochers. And it’s amazing.

On Boxing Day everything goes back to normal. Dad and I squabble about the Radio Times. He’s seen through my plan of trying to Tippex his yellow highlighter out. Mum refuses to cook one more thing so we pick mindlessly at turkey, bread, cheese and Christmas cake all day. Jimmy spends the whole day playing with his helicopter. The dog poos on the kitchen floor and I’m pretty sure I can make out wrapping paper, string and Ferrero Rocher wrappers. And so we pack up and leave and we trek to the M1 for the next stop in the Home Counties.

We still have two Christmases to go and it’s not even nearly January. Already the thought of more turkey makes me want to gag and I think I’ve been a little drunk for about three days straight. I’m exhausted. I’m suffering simultaneous sugar highs and sugar lows but in four days time it will all be over. Then it’ll be New Year’s Eve and with that will come a hangover and a brand new January 1st. Then by January 4th I’ll be back at work and life will, once again, return to normal. The days will get longer, the weather will warm up and the snow will melt.

Now, where have I put my rose-tinted glasses?