Wednesday 26th December
I have always enjoyed Boxing Day more than Christmas Day itself. There is really quite a lot of stress on the day itself. What if your loved one is not as excited with her present as you might hope? What if you have negligently bought the same thing for your sister two years running? What if she is actually rude enough to let you know? What if you forget to ring one of the kids? What if some disaster happens to spoil the day (One day I can remember a toilet had to be unblocked in the middle of serving up lunch – nice)? What if you forgot to switch on the oven or have left the turkey in too long, or it is all dry and tough, or you burn the roast potatoes, or the sprouts are raw, or you cannot find the cranberry jelly or forget to make the gravy? And even if the dinner goes off okay you miss the Queens speech, or there is a sulky row going on between two members of the family you should never have put in the same room together.
But Boxing Day, when it is all over, and you have completely forgotten just who bought you the scarf and gloves and have put away in a drawer the smellies you will never use and the books you will never read and the socks with Bart Simpson on that will go straight in the bin once the guests have all left – you can relax. Put your un-socked feet up, eat far too much bubble and squeak and cold meat and pickles and cold Christmas pudding and snooze in front of the film you always wanted to watch and even miss the footie results – now that’s what I call Christmas.