I wanted them out of my hair and John was itching to go and see if there was enough snow out towards Talkin to get the sledge out so they all cleared off mid-morning and I had a bit of peace to work in. It was nice, standing there at the sink with my apron on and some carols from the posh choirboys dribbling out of the wireless. I was chopping and peeling and mashing like somebody with a dozen hands. Mam used to cook the meat the night before but that had always seemed a bit like cheating, and the kitchen was full of the smell of roasting meat and softening onions and my mouth was fairly watering by the time I stopped for a little rest not long after eleven. I sat myself down in John’s chair and switched on the telly. Bob Monkhouse was grinning in that way of his and I watched him laugh and wink and twinkle for a while as I sipped my tea and thought about what an odd year it had been. This would be the first time Fairfax hadn’t popped around just before lunch with some poor story about not wanting to intrude but needing to borrow something, and John would tell him to get himself sat to the table because there was enough for everybody. We’d been doing that every year since he’d been widowed. For some reason, the tradition had become so important that we all preferred the pretence of his turning up uninvited, rather than actually inviting him along. Don’t ask me why – that’s just families and friends for you.