‘Probably because we’re the only buggers daft enough to sit on the beach in December,’ Cath says, laughing.

Tom heads straight back over to play with the kids, and the adults smile as they watch him, the sound of joyous laughter mixing with the crashing waves.

‘I don’t know where he gets his energy from,’ Cath says to me, ‘but I’m pretty sure you’re not complaining.’ As she chuckles, she notices some dirt on my jeans. ‘Well well well. No wonder you didn’t find any chairs or blankets, you dirty little buggers. I bet you’re both warmed up too, eh?’

I force a smile and a small laugh. It’s not ideal, but it’s better than telling her the truth.

14

Wednesday 25 December

It’s odd that Christmas Day should feel different from any other day, but it does. When all’s said and done, it’s just another day. The birds see the sun rise again, the dogs expect another walk, the trees are glad for another extra couple of minutes of sunshine compared to the day before. To all intents and purposes, it’s just another Wednesday. But it’s not. It feels warmer, cosier.

Maybe it’s being around family. Perhaps it’s a throwback to childhood, when Christmas was undeniably a very different day to any other, when we’d wake up to the sound of Christmas songs, rush downstairs and rip open the presents while the smell of roast turkey wafted through the house. There was a wonder, an amazement which can’t ever be replicated in adulthood, but of which we’re reminded every Christmas Day. The annual muscle memory reminding us that this day is different.

The thing I always notice is the smiles. Of course, Mum and Dad are happy to see us whenever we go over, but Christmas Day seems to get you a bigger smile on arrival. It’s not just a case of opening the door and letting you in; it’s warmer, more welcoming. It means more.

Mum’s always done a brilliant job of making Christmas feel relaxed, even though we know she’s running around the kitchen like a blue-arsed fly. This year is different, though.

Everyone was agreed that we should enjoy Christmas as we always do. If Nan thought we were moping about, waiting for the call to say she’d died, she’d flip her lid without a shadow of a doubt. But it’s clear we all feel slightly guilty each time we smile, as if we should be in a period of pre-mourning. But Christmas is a time for family, and for being together, and we should be able to enjoy that without feeling guilty.

Today of all days, I’m thankful for Tom. He’s fortunate enough to be one step removed, close enough to know the situation and the dynamic, but also able to put some perspective on things and allow us to enjoy the day without feeling that he has to keep a lid on things.

It’s at times like this that I realise how lucky I am to have him. Tom’s at his best when he’s like this. He’s kind. He’s supportive. He’s a rock. He’s everything the family man should be, and a family man always shines at Christmas.