I love my family. Really and truly I do. I am one of those incredibly fortunate/smug people for whom spending time with them is a joy, rather than a chore to be endured through gritted teeth. My mum – otherwise known as “The Smoo” for spurious reasons that have long been lost in the mists of time – is a delight. Her husband is the perfect host, never letting a wine glass get below an inch of Vouvray before sloshing in a generous top up. My nieces are precocious and hilarious, my brother-in-law a font of fascinating conversation and my sister is, quite simply, the best human that ever lived.
But however great one’s family is, Christmas is always tricky to navigate as the token unmarried, child-free adult in the mix. No one infantilises me, and yet it’s nigh-on impossible not to feel like a spare part. Without the traditional trappings of adulthood to my name – a long-term partner, dependents, my own nuclear family – I’ve always had to slot in around other people’s plans, pretzeling myself to fit in with the “proper” grown-ups’ festive itineraries. That’s meant eating Christmas dinner in a bleak, conference centre-type setting at my step-brother’s behest, spending it in the home of my brother-in-law’s parents, and being squeezed into my step-sister’s oversubscribed table at the last minute.
