So it’s that day again. I guess I will accept your invitation to spend Christmas with you, my lovely daughter, and your family, but, like last year, I will try to convince you that I am very happy by myself at home. I repeat that I won’t be lonely and 25 December is just like any other day to me – apart from the luxury of the fact that the world seems to pause for a moment. I know you feel guilty if I am not there, so I come along reluctantly.
I wish you realised that I find it a little painful seeing the indulgence of the children, the number of gifts that I know will end up discarded after a few months, while my simple presents are discreetly put aside. Somehow I never get it right.
I sit there for what seems like hours, sipping my mulled wine as all around get merry. Frankly I would rather eat, but the Christmas meal is served at some weird time between lunch and dinner, by when I have nibbled so many nuts to stave off hunger pangs that my pile of roast potatoes goes unappreciated.
At my age, I feel I have done Christmas. Nothing will surpass the excitement on Christmas morning of one’s own little ones tumbling into the bedroom with their stuffed pillowcases, the sweat over the stove, the craziness of it all. But I would rather keep those memories tucked away safely than have to create new ones.
I am happy you all enjoy the traditions, and maybe each year make new ones. So how about this year that tradition is leaving Mum at home, where as a treat she can take a ready meal out of the freezer, sit in front of the TV and revel in the fact that today of all days, the phone won’t ring?
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