Come to my place for a drama-free celebration

One Christmas night after dinner in my own house I walked a treacherously icy path to call on one of my best friends. I’m glad I did, because the Scrooge-like behaviour I witnessed within that night provided me with a talking point for many Christmases to come.

My friend’s parents (let’s call them The Smiths) had invited a couple they know (let’s call them The Greys) to join them for Christmas dinner. Mrs Smith cooked all day, preparing turkey with all the trimmings, enough veg to feed an army and an artery-clogging assortment of cheeses. The Greys arrived bearing only a saucer-sized Christmas pudding to share between six. After several heated rounds of our favourite made-up dictionary game, The Greys stood up, put on their coats and kissed their hosts goodbye. But before they left Mrs Grey turned to Mrs Smith and asked if she would wrap up the uneaten Christmas Pud for them to take home with them, at which point I spat my wine across the table.

I, for example, am most certainly guilty of odious behaviour on Christmas Day, skulking downstairs at noon demanding to know what time dinner will be served so I can avoid everyone until I have several potato-based food options in front of me.

But generally Christmas Day in the Harrington household is drama-free, warm and gluttonous. After dinner we kindly ask the dog to make enough room for us on the couch and then debate what to watch. My father favours anything starring Clint Eastwood. I tend to favour period drama on Christmas night, an Austen or Edith Wharton adaptation, or if you’re stuck anything with Keira Knightley in a corset will do nicely. But none of it matters really, because we’ll all be snoring gently by nine o’clock.