Finally, the day is here, that one day a year preceded by a camp procession of glitters and sparkles two months prior, hailing the arrival of a fictitious fat guy in a tight red onesie and of very real estranged family.

Sat beneath a potted fir tree which may or may not survive its transplant to the outdoors next week, my mum, boyfriend and I exchanged our gifts under the drowsy hangover of 2 months infused homemade sloe gin. Don’t listen to what hastily googled homely bloggers tell you, don’t have to wait years for it to stew, just filter that baby as soon as you want it.

Since decorative and plastic-coated wrapping paper is the work of devil corporates with their fingers in fossil fuel pies, all the presents under the tree were wrapped in the same brown paper. We’d made it suitably festive with crap felt-tip pen doodles rather than looking like something about to be shipped off overseas. With that, we avoided the panic of what a particularly decorated wrapping paper says about you, only our artistic ability. Also, it’s cheap as fuck.

After smoked salmon (which undoubtedly ingested a million microbeads before it’s untimely death), bucks fizz (with 1000 air miles between the orange juice and Prosecco) and playing with our new gifts (at least the ones that will last us for years to come), we took the short car journey over to my Aunts for the lunch and got suitably rat-arsed.

We hailed in the Christmas feast with crackers filled with disposable plastic crap and I received a fish that tells my mood in my palm. Existential crises about the planet were not part of its repertoire.

The food was a spectacular affair, more side dishes than I’d ever seen this side of Christmas. Most of which was down to the fact that it came pre-chopped, seasoned and basted in plastic containers for a stress-free meal.

We unwrapped more presents under their chopped tree, which prompted a heated discussion about what trees are best to have in your house for the season, along with an abrupt shutdown. As a smooth segue, we hosted a display of indoor fireworks. I could say something about the environmental issues of indoor toxins, but the in-house sparkles were brilliant.

We stumbled out early after my mum tried to get her brother-in-law’s father to dance with her, had a few more tipples of sloe gin, and fell asleep, free to dream of the next 10 months where our senses aren’t assaulted by excessive amounts of adverts, payment plans and the threat of an overweight white guy breaking into our homes.

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