He’s taken it upon himself to be the unofficial drinks waiter, making sure everyone’s glasses keep topped up — one of the prerequisites of any good Christmas Day. Mum’s banished him from the kitchen — along with everyone else — and has declared that the next person to ask if she needs a hand with anything will provide an uncomfortable new home for the turkey giblets.

I try to give Tom a knowing look to tell him that maybe it’s not a great idea to keep topping Dad’s glass up. He’s already slurring his speech and getting short-tempered. After everything that’s been going on with Nan he’s not been in the best of moods lately, and I worry that he’s going to act up.

We open a few presents and have a good laugh at some of the jokier gifts we’ve got each other. As a family, we’ve always been fortunate enough to buy the things we want throughout the year, so Christmas for us has always been about lighthearted gifts or those saw-this-and-thought-of-you items. After all, they mean so much more than a bottle of perfume or a necklace — no matter how sweet the scent or large the ruby.

After an hour and a half or so, we realise Mum’s been stuck in the kitchen on her own, and decide on a plan to rescue her. We daren’t offer her any help, but we can definitely insist she stops cooking for a few minutes and comes into the living room to open a few presents of her own. It is Christmas, after all.

Dad draws the short straw and heads out to the kitchen. A few seconds later, he comes back into the living room.

‘Where is she?’ he asks.

‘I thought she was in the kitchen,’ I say. ‘Maybe she’s gone upstairs to the loo.’

Dad heads upstairs, calling for her, and we think no more of it. A couple of minutes later, they come thundering down the stairs and round into the kitchen. We hear raised voices, and I stand up to see what’s going on, but Tom placates me.

‘It’s alright. I’ll go,’ he says.

After a minute or so, Dad comes into the living room with a look of thunder on his face.

‘Well that’s the dinner fucked,’ he says.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your mum decided to fall asleep upstairs, didn’t she. God knows why she didn’t just ask one of us to keep an eye on things for a few minutes. Daft woman. Too bloody proud for her own good.’

Mum enters the living room, Tom walking closely behind her with a hand on each of her shoulders.

‘We’re alright, I think,’ Tom says. ‘It’s salvageable.’

‘Mum, what happened?’ I ask.

‘She had a bit of a funny turn,’ Tom says. ‘She felt like she needed to lie down for a minute, and seems to have dozed off. It’s alright, it happens.’

‘Are you okay now?’ I ask Mum.

Mum nods.

‘She’ll be fine,’ Tom says. ‘I’ll keep an eye on things in the kitchen. Most of it’s nearly ready anyway, so I can finish off the last few bits.’