‘Mum, my home is in Nottingham. And there hasn’t been a single Christmas I didn’t see you.’

‘Dropping in for an hour on Boxing Day hardly counts.’ She paused, no doubt to crank up the guilt-o-meter. ‘I just don’t want you to feel out of place or underdressed.’

‘If only you’d decided that twenty years ago.’ My childhood wardrobe had been somewhat unusual to say the least. I would describe it as home-made, but it was worse than that. Charis House was an alternative provision school. It specialised in teenagers with behavioural issues and a whole host of challenges that meant they needed more time, flexibility, and expertise than mainstream schools could provide. That was all well and good and amazingly noble, but one of the subjects was fashion design and textiles, and to provide extra encouragement to the students, whilst teaching the wider lesson of ‘waste not want not’, our family ended up wearing their projects.

Mum ignored me. ‘Did you get the itinerary? I emailed and shared on the Armstrong WhatsApp.’

Unfortunately that hadn’t been one of the emails that mysteriously failed to appear in my inbox.

‘I haven’t had a chance to read it yet.’ If ‘had a chance’ meant ‘summoned the mental strength’.

‘I don’t want any grumbles that you weren’t aware of the schedule.’

‘It’s my first Christmas off in four years. Maybe I’d rather not have to follow a schedule.’

‘Then how will you know what’s happening? If this is a twice-a-decade event, we need to ensure you don’t miss out on anything.’

That really wouldn’t be too much of a problem…

‘Hang on, wait. Your dad wants a word.’

Taking a fortifying breath, I steeled myself for parent number two.

‘You are going to join in with everything, Sweet-Bea? There are lots of people looking forward to seeing you.’ Dad already sounded distraught at the very thought. ‘We’ve missed you being a part of Christmas so much. Your mother has worked very hard planning it all so we can make the most of this one.’

‘I get that, Dad, but please bear in mind that this is my holiday. I’m actually pretty knackered. Unless the itinerary includes reading, snoozing, and lazing-about time, I might have to duck out once or twice.’

‘Of course it does! Your mother needs a rest, too. She’s not a robot.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

We finished the call and, with my stomach sinking into my furry boots, I looked back through the messages to where I’d previously scrolled past Mum’s ‘Armstrong Family Christmas Itinerary’, this time opening the spreadsheet.

It took a few seconds, but I found it eventually. In between eating, rehearsals, seeing wider family, and other activities spanning this evening, the twenty-first, right through until New Year. A luxurious two-hour slot on the twenty-seventh: Free time.

It was going to be a long week.

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