It was Christmas Day in the family house

I drove down to my Mum’s at around 5am Christmas morning. Although getting out of bed that early in the morning was not part of my plan, I assumed that an inability to sleep was an inevitable product of the child-like excitement that this time of year regularly engenders. It also had the virtue of potentially enabling me to make an early getaway later in the day and to return to my wife who had wisely opted out of any contact with any part of the family for the entire Christmas period.

Arriving a little after 7, Mum appeared to only just be getting up. I am not sure if we specifically exchanged the felicitations of the season, or just the ritual “how are you”, neither of us really wanting an honest response. After the affects of the coffee that I made myself had worn off, I began to develop a distinct feeling of dread as the realisation kicked in that we couldn’t really begin cooking for another couple of hours. “Christmas, what do you make of it,” I asked, irritably. “Well, it’s not like it used to be, is it?” she replied. I became agitated at my own unforced opening up of a vulnerable emotional flank. I, after all, was central to the value of this particular Christmas celebration as I had opted to drive down to be with Mum. “Does Christmas matter to you?” I asked, half wanting to hear that there was in fact some point in me being there. “Well, it wouldn’t matter if they did away with it,” she said. “They?” I queried, wondering if she had in mind a sudden state directive declaring the sentimentalised and superstitious memorialisation of the birth of a baby and the attendant consumer blow-out incompatible with socialist values.

“I am here because I thought it mattered to you,” I said. “Oh, it matters to be with family,” she said, half recovering but only sufficient to make me realise that my presence on this day was merely a matter of keeping up appearances. The carers had been cancelled this particular morning because one of her sons was showing up. Otherwise she would have to explain to some barely interested girl on triple time why neither of her boys was coming this year, and our family would not appear “normal”. As if any honest appraisal could consider this a remotely solid unit. “It was better when we were younger,” she added. “Oh yes,” I agreed. I suppressed the urge to remind her that no sooner had we both left home than she and Dad would themselves do what I only wish I could do, and opt out of a family Christmas. Regularly they would disappear out for Christmas lunch, and even for the night on two or three occasions - down to some hideous little guest house on the seafront.

I rallied, however, remembering that she has some sweet but not too sickly sparkling white wine getting warm in the kitchen. It would be weak enough to combine with driving, but hopefully just about strong enough to improve the atmosphere. “Happy New Year” she inappropriately toasted me, perhaps deciding to drop any more references to the event that we were apparently celebrating. We stood in front of the lit bureau that displayed my Mum’s glasses, all of them small, fit for a suitably parsimonious outpouring of liquor. Nothing was ever done in excess in our house, modesty in all things; generosity never a dominant virtue, not even to ourselves.

I had hoped Mum wouldn't bother with presents. I had told her not to. We are skint, and despite this I don't really see the point of being given petrol money as a "gift". Mum had though prepared two envelopes of cash and a present for us both: a cushion emblazoned with flying ducks. Just my thing.

We negotiated awkwardly around each other in the small kitchen space as we prepared a traditional Christmas fayre of roast beef and Yorkshire pud. For some strange reason I deferred to Mother’s apparent wisdom when it came to steaming the Christmas pudding, and watched as the water boiled fiercely, discounting her dismissal of my suggestion that the plastic container should stand on something in the pan. Mum sounded desperate as the frozen peas proved beyond reason. “Mum, they are only bloody peas, it’s not the end of the world if you can’t get some into a saucepan, is it?” I quickly became more emollient, not wanting to ruin the day.

As we prepared the rest of the dinner, the room filled more and more with smoke. As I gazed at the strange, black-current like, liquid surrounding the pudding, a high pitched alarm went off, in turn automatically triggering a dialling up of social services. Within moments a woman’s voice came through from the intercom in the lounge. “Are you alright?” I hurried in, and managed to laugh off our attempts “to burn Christmas dinner,” as I jocularly put it. Ambulance averted, I returned to the kitchen. “What should I do?” Mum rather desperately enquired. “Open the door?” I suggested, incredulous at the lack of initiative.

It is partly age, but it is also an inactive and overly sedated mind that, I guess, causes this. We managed a second Lambrusco with our meal. Beef slightly underdone (suited me; her Brussels boiled to such an extent that they no longer looked green; gravy as thick as syrup, but tasty as I managed to intervene before she deployed instant granules; spuds that were actually rather good. Her Yorkshire pudding failed to rise to the occasion, in fact it failed to rise at all, but, with another gravy gloop, it tasted alright. Christmas pudding, minus the melted plastic, tasted okay too.

I left at 2pm on the dot; my personal deadline. Here’s to next Christmas. My brother’s not getting away with it for the fourth year running.