Growing up in Derby in the 1980s, Christmas Day was always the same. I woke my sisters up early (they were 10 and 13 years older than me, so not quite as excited about Santa), then we made tea and took it into our parents’ bedroom. There we all crowded on to the bed and opened our presents. Afterwards, we dressed in our festive finery and drove to Auntie Marion and Uncle Martin’s house in time for Christmas dinner, served at midday on the dot.
And what a dinner it was. We are a family of traditionalists, so it was always turkey and all the trimmings, followed by Christmas pudding. Everything was homemade, from the bread sauce to the brandy butter. I could take or leave the boiled sprouts, but I devoured everything else: the pigs in blankets, stuffing, roast potatoes, red cabbage, parsnips, carrots, cranberry sauce, gravy …
