‘Actually,’ I fibbed, ‘I was trying to work out what it was that you’ve come up with to try and help me remember what Christmas is all about.’

‘I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist asking,’ Dolly smiled, accepting what I had said as she transferred Tiddles from her lap to mine. ‘I’ll get my notepad and pencil and then I’ll explain.’

‘I hope it isn’t anything to do with making a list,’ I told her, ‘because that’s cheating. You know how I love a good list. I won’t be able to resist if there are bullet points involved.’

‘It has everything to do with making a list,’ said Dolly, settling herself back into her seat, now with her squishy beanbag lap tray, reading glasses and notepad in place. ‘A Christmas Wish List.’

‘A Christmas, what?’ I frowned.

‘Wish List,’ she said again, licking the end of her pencil and deftly flicking the notebook open on to the next clean page.

‘What’s one of those?’ I asked.

I couldn’t imagine she was going to ask me to start writing a list of longed-for presents. Dolly was the least materialistic person I knew.

‘Well, it can be all sorts of things,’ she said seriously and I suddenly got the feeling she was going to aim straight for my heart, ‘to all sorts of people, but this one is unique to you, Hattie. I saw your face light up this morning when you opened that advent calendar and I’m certain there are plenty of other things about Christmas that you’ve missed every bit as much, it’s just that you’ve forgotten about them.’

I wasn’t sure she was right, but I did love the calendar.

‘So, the point of the list is . . .’

‘To experience them again,’ she said, scribbling something I couldn’t make out at the top of the page. ‘I want you to create a list of all the things you either haven’t done for ages or won’t be able to do when you move, or even both. Like I told you before, I want you to make some memories to take with you, my dear.’

‘I see.’

‘You keep insisting that Christmas isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, but I’m not sure if you’re simply accepting Jonathan’s opinion about it as your own, or if you’ve worked through the holidays for so long you’ve hardened your heart against it, or if you’re in denial about the joy it can bring because you don’t talk to your parents . . .’

‘Dolly—’

‘I know,’ she carried on, flapping her hand, ‘I know, you don’t need me to point all this out to you and you probably think I’m a little cruel to do it—’

‘A little cruel—’