For years, Christmas was a high-octane muddle of dawn rising, discarded wrapping paper, the emergency scrabble for AA batteries, mounds of roast potatoes, thundering James Bond theme tunes and finding melted pieces of Terry’s Chocolate Orange down the back of the sofa. With three boys, it was a glorious rampage, only survived by manic list-making and swigs of mulled wine.
But nothing stays the same. Those rambunctious times are now a memory, and I’ve curated a new Christmas. A quiet Christmas. For now, at any rate. I’m single, my darling dad passed away some years ago, and my
