Like a lot of people, ever so predictably, I love Christmas. I love the food, the smells, the ritual lethargy.
When I was younger, my Nan always stayed with us on Christmas Eve. At around seven the next day, I would wake her up with a timely ‘Cock-a-doodle-doo!’. We would traipse downstairs, en masse, feeling a mixture of jittery anticipation and familiarity.
One year, the highlight of the day was receiving the gift of a tent, which stayed up in the living room for at least a fortnight. I cannot recall it ever going outside, but it did provide a suitable hiding place for my chocolate stash. Another year, it was the walkie-talkie headset that had a range of approximately twenty metres. Phases came and went quickly, a reflection of the childhood crazes of the late nineties and early noughties.