Christmas has always been a time of favoured repetition, a day or two to relax and indulge, rarely changing from the last, doubtlessly changing much to the next. The Brussel sprouts and spring greens bubbled away as my mother conjured up a magical festive feast, sisters carried out their ritual of squabbling over their stocking filler triumphs in the background and Dad, having cleverly bored us to yawns by putting on The Great Escape, would be left in his grown-up haven of wrapping-paper strewn solitude in the living room downstairs.
