Up at eight o'clock, but awake an hour earlier, stuck in bed till you hear "He's been". Three sacks in the living room, one in each corner; fruit and shiny new coins at the bottom of a stocking. Afterwards we drink mugs of tea, eat full English breakfasts and spend the morning lounging across the sofa with Christmas books and chocolate.
Lunchtime comes, and the table's set in time for the two o'clock toast, to absent friends and family. We eat seconds and thirds, a different plate for each kind of meat, clumsily spooning vegetables out of the once-a-year china. For what's left of the afternoon there are board games and heavy stomachs, paper crowns flattening your hair as you start the washing-up.
Teatime cakes and bottles of wine are polished off at six, spread across the Father Christmas placemats, now stained with gravy and bucks fizz. We pull supermarket crackers and pack saucers with pickled onions, posh cheese and biscuits, lettuce leaves and Christmas cake, with marzipan top and red cardboard sides. In the evening, after a special episode of Doctor Who, we sit in the front room with a DVD game, drink cans of beer still cold from the porch, and finally fall into bed.
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